Everything Happens For a Reason
by sienna27
Summary: Universe E: Story 1 of 2 - Spin off of "Falling in Love with a Girl." Late season 2, H/P fly to Texas for a parole hearing, something terrible happens on the trip; H/P friendship, no romance. Changed from T to M for language & imagery in later chapters
1. Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking

**Author's Note**: It's a new story, number 60! And yes, I know some of you are waiting oh so patiently for updates on existing stories, and they are coming. Just not right this second ;)

This is another spinoff of _Girl_, Universe E. Before you start this, you should **first go read chapters 1-20 of **_**"Falling in Love with a Girl."**_ This is H/P friendship only, NOT a romance.

Now this story picks up events immediately after Chapter 20 (A Bloody Mess) which was the one that covered the season two finale where Gideon's girlfriend was killed and Emily discovered that she was a plant in the unit. There are a few weeks between what happens in that episode, and what happens in the season opener when Hotch gets suspended, Gideon disappears completely, Emily quits and then Haley leaves. I was intrigued by the idea of a spinoff at that point in those in-between days. Because clearly for all of that to happen in the opener, then the true unraveling of those relationships happened in those missing days. So I'm taking those days where everything was on the brink, and spinning them off in a different direction. Here something terrible happens during the in-between that bonds Hotch and Emily in a way that they didn't bond in canon. And then season 3 is completely re-envisioned with their relationship being something else entirely.

Though I have plans for this universe overall, this story itself will not be that that long chapter wise. And it's just Hotch and Emily, not the full team, and though this is the Girl'verse, this is going to move to a more intense tale in a couple chapters. The reason this is going up now is because this is also going to be my main Halloween story this year, under the "scary story" entries. I've had the first couple of chapters written for awhile and I'll put up one a week so by the time we get to the upsetting stuff it'll be October.

So as this opens remember that Emily's looking for an exit strategy and Hotch's marriage has deteriorated to the point that his wife is about to leave him.

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**Story Title Forum - Prompt Set #2**

Author: Elizabeth George

Title Challenge: A Moment on The Edge

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"_Long is the way_ _and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light."_

_- John __Milton_

* * *

**Somewhere A Clock Is Ticking**

Hotch pushed passed the furious Haley to storm into his den. A split-second later the crash of the door slamming shut filled the house.

Unfortunately though, that still wasn't the dominant noise he could hear . . . that would be his wife. And unfortunately his home office wasn't sound proof, because he could _still_ hear his wife SCREAMING at him from the other side of the door. Her words were vicious and they were tiresome . . . and they were boring into his brain.

His eyes fell shut as he scrubbed his hands down his face . . . he was trying to block them out.

Jesus Christ. How the hell had this happened to them? They used to be happy. Of course they fought, everybody fought, but it wasn't like this . . . his eyes snapped open again as he shook his head . . . it was never like this.

They would calm down, apologize, kiss and make up. They hadn't kissed and made up in months.

He winced . . . they hadn't been happy in a long time.

Months really.

Now there was just this was almost endless barrage of hostility. Even when they weren't openly fighting there was a tension, the sense of constantly walking on eggshells. And the moment one shell cracked they were off and running again.

It was exhausting.

Of course the arguments weren't always as bad as this one tonight, but he'd recently noticed this cylindrical pattern and he didn't know how to break it. They went back and forth on the same topics without purpose or any end in sight.

She said that he wasn't home enough . . . he said he was doing his best.

She said to take out the garbage . . . he said to give him five minutes to take off his coat.

She said he should have called if he was going to be late . . . he said it was a little hard to do that when he was in the middle of interviewing a suspected serial killer.

She said that his son missed him . . . he said that was a low blow.

And tonight . . . for the first time . . . she said that she wanted him to transfer.

He said no.

He said no and now his wife was screaming words on the other side of that wooden door that even after eighteen years of marriage he didn't know that she knew.

It wasn't a pretty side of her.

But why should he transfer? Hotch's jaw twitched as he began to pace . . . he'd busted his ass to get this job. Why all of a sudden does he have to throw away _everything_ that he'd worked so hard to get?

How can Haley not see how unfair that is to ask him to choose?

It's not like he wasn't trying to get home more. It's not like he didn't KNOW that he was missing time with his baby boy. And it's not like he didn't know that was time that he wouldn't get back.

He knew all those things. But he didn't dictate his schedule . . . the cases dictated his schedule.

Not to mention that lately they'd also had a hell of a lot of personal tragedy on the team too. Reid's abduction and the aftermath there, Gideon's girlfriend getting butchered and Jason being named the prime suspect. So yes, Hotch did allow that the last four or five months he had been pulled away from home quite a bit. Perhaps a bit more than usual. And yes, he also knew that since Jack was born it was harder for Haley now when he was away because she had to take care of their son all alone.

And he felt badly about that . . . he really did. But on the flip side though . . . and he felt a little sexist for even thinking it . . . he would have thought that the baby would help _fill_ her time. That now she WOULDN'T be so resentful of his traveling. What did she do with her days before Jack was born? She hadn't worked full time since they'd gotten married and it's not like he'd ever been a nine to fiver.

The USAO, SWAT and the BAU had all been jobs requiring his full attention.

Okay . . . he paced around the room . . . the BAU often required _more_ than his full attention. But he'd been working there for nearly a decade and Jack was still in diapers so this position he was in was not "new" to her. Haley knew where he was working when she first said that she wanted to have a baby, and that's where he'd been working when he'd finally _agreed_ to have a baby. And when that decision was made there definitely had been NO discussion about his career or any concerns that she may have had about how it was going to impact an expanded family.

'_So why was his job NOW suddenly such a problem for her?'_ He thought with a burst of anger. And if it had been a problem before why the hell hadn't she said something _before_ they had the baby?

Realizing the implications of what he'd just said . . . that somehow he regretted his son's birth . . . Hotch stopped pacing as he felt a stab of guilt. Of course he didn't regret Jack's birth. And . . . he rolled his eyes . . . "getting his wife off his back" certainly wasn't the reason he'd finally agreed to start a family. They did wait a long time . . . a very long time . . . but it's not as though Haley had to wear him down.

Well . . . Hotch bit his lip as he really thought about the answer there . . . not _really_. It was just that it had taken awhile for him to become comfortable with the idea of children. His upbringing had not been a happy one. And with all of the terrible things he saw at work, he knew that his home life was not an aberration.

Both nature and nurture created a multitude of horrible creatures that went bump in the night.

And the thought of bringing a child into this twisted, fucked up world terrified him. But he loved his boy . . . he felt a stab of pain as he heard Haley starting to cry before she moved away from the door . . . he loved his family.

He just needed to figure out a way to get them through whatever the hell it was they were going through right now. Tonight's battle royale had been precipitated by his announcement that he had to leave town in the morning and he wouldn't be back until at least Friday. That's when Haley told him that he needed to transfer.

And that's when he told her no.

Which brought him to now.

His wife was now off crying in their bedroom, while he tried to refocus on work. Specifically a parole hearing down in Texas that he needed to attend.

It was a hearing that Gideon was going to cover . . . it was his case originally . . . but obviously . . . even if he hadn't been on leave . . . he was in no condition to be handling something like this. Still though . . . Hotch sighed as he tried to fully shift his attention away from his personal issues and onto his work ones . . . somebody on the team needed to attend this hearing.

There was no way that they could let this one back on the street.

So that really just left him or Morgan to speak. Reid was still too twitchy to be going anywhere, JJ wasn't a profiler and Prentiss, well . . . Hotch leaned down to unlock his desk . . . Prentiss was the reason that Hotch needed to take this one instead of Morgan.

She was coming with him.

Hotch's brow darkened as he pulled out the case file and began to skim over the details of Cabrini's killing spree . . . nothing new there. He'd been incarcerated for thirteen years, and this was the third time that he'd been up for parole.

Gideon had shut it down every other time.

Hotch sighed as he sat down at his desk . . . and now that job had fallen to him.

Him and Prentiss.

He picked up his cell phone . . . she was coming with him because this would be a good training exercise for her. At some point everyone had to speak in front of a parole board and explain exactly what made these people tick and why in God's name they should never be released back into society.

And though Emily had been with them for close to eight months, she was still the newest member of the team and Hotch knew that he needed to start helping her fill in some of the gaps in her experience. Ordinarily this was something that he would have been more aggressive about at an earlier date. But with the awkwardness of her beginning, Reid's abduction and subsequent PTSD and drug problem, and now most recently everything that had happened with Gideon, somehow time had just gotten away from him.

Something else had always taken priority.

But now summer was fast approaching and he hadn't yet brought Prentiss to a parole hearing, let her lead a class at the Academy or even take point on a custodial interview.

God . . . he paused to shake his head in disgust before hitting the green button . . . he really was dropping the ball with her. She had so much potential. Really, with her gift with children and her ability to connect emotionally with the victims, he knew that the potential there wasn't only to be good, but to be great.

And he was wasting that greatness.

So as his finger dropped down to hit send, he put all of his home life issues out of his head for a moment.

Time to work.

/*/*/*/*/*/

Emily put her third glass of diet Coke down on the coffee table before she herself dropped back down onto the couch. As she folded her pink pajama clad legs underneath her body, she looked back down at her laptop.

Since she'd arrived home from work two and a half hours ago she'd been researching the requirements for inter-agency transfers. She had to get the hell out of the Bureau.

And damn soon.

So far she'd been able to push Strauss off, but God knows how long the "I have absolutely nothing to say you to you, _MA'AM_" was going to fly.

The woman was getting _very _impatient.

When she'd pulled her into her office that night it was clear that she'd assumed that Emily would immediately fold, immediately begin feeding her information about Hotch and the unit. And when she didn't . . . when she balked . . . the witch had begun to hint that if Emily didn't come up with something soon that she was going to "disclose" her status to Hotch. In essence such a disclosure would not only destroy all trust that Hotch had in her now, but it would also ruin her career at the FBI completely.

Nobody would ever want her in their unit with a reputation as a mole. Basically Strauss was getting her coming and going . . . you ruin him or I ruin you.

Your choice.

Yeah well . . . Emily scowled as she bookmarked the entrance requirements for the NSA . . . she'd never much cared for multiple choice tests. She was an essay girl. And she was going to write her own way out of this one.

Suddenly flashing on Strauss' threats slithering through the phone line last week, Emily's stomach turned. God . . . she shuddered . . . hopefully she'd be out of there soon though. Because every time she thought of that horrible woman "outing her" to Hotch Emily wanted to throw up.

That woman had NO idea what it was like doing the work that they did, the awful things that they experienced and the bonds formed as a result of immersing themselves in a world that nobody should have to live in. As hard as it was . . . her heart ached as she thought of Reid and Gideon . . . as much as it cost them . . . they did it week in and week out, over and over again. And Strauss dismissed all of it like it was nothing.

Like their relationships were nothing.

It was almost enough to make Emily want to call in a favor from her father. Oh yeah . . . Emily snorted humorlessly as she started looking at the Foreign Service openings . . . Daddy would find a nice third world prison where they could dump the section chief off for the next thirty or forty years.

That would be wonderful.

The unexpected shrill of the house phone broke Emily's concentration, making her jump slightly as her hand slipped off the mouse.

It was almost ten . . . her brow wrinkled as she leaned over to check the caller ID . . . who'd be calling this time of night?

Hotch.

Her expression softened . . . of course, speak of the devil. Since that night when he found her crying in the bullpen, she always felt like he could hear the guilt in her voice. He'd been so nice to her, letting her dry her tears on his shoulder and now she felt like it was because he already knew her terrible secret and was just patiently waiting for her to admit it to him.

But she knew that was crazy, that was just paranoia talking.

Still though, she took a breath to steady her voice before picking up the phone.

Paranoia had its place when you lived in a world of profilers.

"Hey Hotch," she tried to sound casual as she shifted her leg around, "do we have a case?"

"Good evening Prentiss, and uh no, not really," Hotch started booting up his laptop, "though you and I will be flying out in the morning, it's not an active case. I need to go to Texas to appear before the parole board and I want you with me. It'll be a good experience. You know these hearings come up for us fairly often and down the road I'd like for you to be able to attend one on your own if need be."

Not that he was inclined to send Prentiss . . . or really any of them . . . off alone. But you know never know what's going to happen and he wanted her to have the confidence to handle a hearing if circumstances required it.

Emily's eyes began to burn . . . down the road. He wanted to bring her on a training exercise to teach her something that he thought she might find useful in the future.

Except that she had no future.

Not with the FBI anyway. And she so badly just wanted to blurt that out to him now. To unburden herself from this misplaced guilt. She wanted to tell him that he shouldn't waste his time with her, that he should be focusing his efforts on finding her replacement and insulating himself from Strauss.

But she just couldn't say the words. She didn't want to ruin the time she had left with the team.

The time she had left with him.

Her relationship with Hotch was so important to her. More important perhaps than she had realized. This horrific work that he devoted himself to, all the good that he did for people. And he did it for no credit, no glory . . . just because it was the right thing to do. He was an inspiration, a role model.

Next to her father, Hotch was probably the person she respected most in the world, and the thought of disappointing him made her feel sick. She just wanted to leave him on good note, that was really all she could salvage from awful situation. So she tried to cover over her sadness, falsely brightening her voice as she answered him.

"That sounds good. How long will we be gone?"

Hotch looked over the flight options he'd just punched into Sidestep.

"Well," his brow scrunched as he figured out the timing, "at least a full day, but pack for two days though to be safe. The hearing is at nine am on Thursday so I figure we'll fly out late tomorrow morning and then we'll land at a decent hour local time. Keep in mind we're flying commercial so we can't prep on the plane like we usually do. So we'll do that tomorrow night which means that we need to leave the office around . . . hold on," he scrolled down the screen, "10:30. Then we can catch the 11:55 out of Dulles."

As Hotch had been speaking Emily's emotions had started getting the better of her. She knew that was she was overstressed and overtired, but all she could see right now was everything that was losing.

Things that she was never going to get back.

And when he stopped talking, she wiped the small bit of moisture from the corner of her eye as she nodded.

"Okay," she cleared her throat, "I'll be ready."

There was a pause before Hotch came back slowly, "you sound a little hoarse. Are you getting sick Prentiss?"

Not that he sounded that great himself . . . he had been arguing with Haley for the last forty five minutes . . . but it seemed unlikely that Prentiss had been in the midst of her own family drama when he called. And he had noticed that the last few days she'd been somewhat subdued and looking a little pale. If she was coming down with something he didn't want to drag her onto a commercial airplane . . . a breeding ground for disease . . . without good cause. It wasn't like they had a case. It was just an impromptu training exercise.

There would be others.

Jesus. . . Emily cursed to herself . . . how does he DO that? She couldn't even keep things from him when he was THREE towns away!

Again she tried to cover.

"It must be the pollen. Really sir, I feel," she cleared her throat again as she spoke firmly, "just fine. I'll be ready to go tomorrow, no problem."

"All right," Hotch's gaze fell to the floor as he tapped his fingers on his desk, "just checking."

There was silence for a moment as he tried to think if he had forgotten to tell her anything. No . . . he bit his lip . . . that was it.

"I'll see you in the morning. Have a good night Prentiss."

"Thanks Hotch," Emily said softly, "you too."

She sat there listening to the click, and then the buzzing in her ear before she realized that he was gone. With a shake of her head, she put the receiver back into the base, her eyes shifting back down to her notepad. She had carefully printed out the list of agencies to research for transfer requirements.

Half of them had lines through them.

Her gaze drifted to her open laptop and the Foreign Service listings she'd started reviewing right before Hotch had called.

Well . . . she sighed . . . her research was definitely done for the evening. She'd pick it up again at the hotel tomorrow night.

After she'd closed her computer and sat back against the couch, Emily's eyes began to water again.

'_God, this sucked.'_

* * *

_A/N 2: When I was writing this section of their lives in Girl (over a year ago) I didn't give much thought to these in between days. The format of the story for season 2 was simply to cover a chapter per episode, and there were no episodes here. But as I thought about those days for this story all I could think was how awful that must have been for both Emily and Hotch, for totally different reasons. Those were the last days of his marriage and it was clear from the sliver of his home life they bothered to show in canon that they were fighting even when he was working. So I figure if it was so bad it was bleeding into work, home must have been World War Three. I saw the suspension as the eye of the hurricane and Haley's blissful "everything's fine now" attitude in Birth & Death as her fooling herself that the situation had been magically resolved. And I did like having the opportunity to flesh out the deterioration of the marriage. I touched on it in past tense in main Girl, but that's not a story about Hotch and Haley, it's about Hotch and Emily, so I wasn't going to make that a focus there. And then Emily, having to keep going into work every day and pretend things were normal, knowing what she knew about her own status and what Strauss was trying to do to Hotch and the unit, the guilt and the tension must have been eating away at her. So that's why we opened here. For the rest of this story to work the opening needed to set the stage for where they are in both their personal and professional lives right now, they're a mess. And now they're off to Texas. And things are not going to go well for them down there. I really liked hitting H/P's relationship at this point because it's totally unique for me writing from season 2. They definitely aren't in love, they aren't even really friends yet, their unique bond in Girl really begins to solidify with Emily quitting and Hotch dragging her back. _

_Another chapter here sometime next week._

_Updates before the weekend on Aaron & Emily & To Rossi's House. Updates OVER the weekend on The Hours and Fracture, and possibly one other item. The muses are being cooperative (knock wood) so I'm continuing to try to keep as many balls in the air as possible._

_**FYI: Lots of new prompts in both forums**  
_


	2. What Goes Up

**Author's note**: Hola kids! RL took up all of my writing time for a solid week, but happily that kind of let up on Thursday so I got a couple things cleaned up and a couple things drafted. Thank God I type fast :) As to what's getting up before Monday, just this and _Fracture_. _The Hours_ and _Aaron & Emily_ are both in good shape too but _Fracture'_s closer to 'print' than they are so that's the focus in my free time today.

_Prompts Announcement_: New regular prompts and new bonus prompts (Halloween themed) went up in both forums, plus another set of Fan's Pick in TV Titles, so tons of new inspiration this week.

_And one other announcement: _I have been forgetting to mention this simply because I'm pretty removed from the rest of the fandom so it's never fresh in my head when I'm posting, but this week I made a mental note! So if you aren't aware already, ilovetvalot and Tonnie are running 2010 fic awards over on their ChitChat Forum. They run across all of CM and nominations close on October 15th at midnight EST. To learn more about what to do and how it works, you can go to one of their profile pages. And now I am very proud of myself because I have _finally_ remembered to be a good dooby and publicize that information as I had promised ilovetvalot I would like two months ago, even before the nominating period opened :)

Back to the story, this picks up the next morning after Hotch's call. Remember this is the hiatus period from season 2 to season 3.

**

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TV Prompt Forum Bonus #19 – The Case of the Bonus Bonus**

Title: Perry Mason

Challenge: The Case of the Frantic Flyer

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**What Goes Up . . .**

Early Wednesday afternoon Emily found herself slowly squeezing down the aisle of a Boeing 767 trying to get to row 43, seats A and/or B . . . either would do. Technically she was in A but Hotch had told her that she could have the window if she wanted it so she was aiming for B. Every little perk she could get really because today was the first time that Emily had flown commercial since she'd gone to work for the BAU eight months earlier.

It sucked.

The plane had arrived at the gate twenty minutes later than it was supposed to so then they had to wait until _that_ flight disembarked before their flight could begin boarding. So now they were running a solid forty five minutes behind and everybody was cranky as hell and grumbling to their traveling companions about the state of commercial airline travel in this country.

The consensus was . . . drum roll please . . . it sucked! And given that Emily had independently come to that same conclusion herself thirty minutes earlier when she'd gotten her feet tangled up in a carry on strap somebody left lying in the middle of the boarding area . . . Hotch caught her arm before she hit the deck . . . this conclusion did not surprise her at all.

Of course it didn't help anyone's mood that the flight was packed like they had mistaken the human passengers for a group of sardines, but there were also the usual cast of jackasses who assumed that the world at large had some passing interest in hearing about their personal problems.

For example, the scrawny gentlemen in the doorway bitching loudly at the flight attendant about his seat assignment . . . yeah, good job buddy, keep yelling at the woman because _you_ didn't read your boarding pass when you printed it out last night, that really endears you to the flight crew . . . the garishly dressed woman Emily was passing by now who was yelling at her husband for checking her make up bag rather than taking it as their one carry on . . . seriously, she was already wearing enough paint on her face to hold her own ring at the circus . . . and then overshadowing the rest of the din, there was the clichéd crying baby.

Not that Emily felt that the crying was the baby's fault . . . the poor thing was probably as miserable as the rest of his/her fellow travelers . . . but given that they were all stuck in this flying metal coffin together, the sound was reverberating around the space and making her head hurt.

So there was all that . . . the world around them.

And then there was her own little world, Emily herself and the man who was slowly squeezing down the aisle behind her. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the suspected clenching of his jaw. That was to be expected though because her own travel companion had not been in a good mood even prior to their arrival at the airport and the discovery of the flight delay. And given all of the idiots they'd been dealing with since they got to the airport, Emily was GENUINELY surprised that Hotch hadn't thrown anyone through a window yet.

His mood had been _that_ foul before they left the office.

Contrary to popular belief . . . as in belief outside the team proper . . . Hotch was not generally ill tempered. Ill-temperedness was actually a rarity with him. Yes, it was true . . . Emily stopped short as an elbow shot out into the aisle . . . her boss was incredibly serious, and could overall be described as somewhat cranky. But after she'd gotten to know him better, Emily had seen that crankiness as part of his charm. It generally coincided with his mother hen instincts peeking out.

For instance last winter when he'd set the gruff standing order from December to March to pack hats and gloves in their ready bags because he didn't want to hear any bitching at the crime scenes.

That was Mom Hotch telling them that it was cold out and not to forget their mittens.

And thinking back on that moment now, Emily felt a little ache in her stomach as she remembered again that she was leaving. Because Mom Hotch telling them to bundle up was him being sweet, and that soft center was one of the reasons that she would never betray him. But of course . . . she tried to push off the encroaching melancholy . . . his crankiness was also a defense mechanism. She knew that he'd been doing this work for almost a decade so being a little grumpy on the job was more than understandable to her. But today he'd shown up late to the briefing and it was obvious that he was beyond a little bit grumpy.

He was . . . well, he was downright pissed.

When she'd first noticed his mood Emily's immediate . . . horrifying . . . thought was that Strauss had carried through on her threat that morning. That Hotch's bad mood was all her fault, that he knew now that she'd been planted in the BAU for the Section Chief's own narcissistic, nefarious purposes and he was waiting for the opportunity to take her down to the range and use her for target practice.

A little dramatic perhaps, but not too far off from what she assumed he'd WANT to do to her if he really did find out what was going on. So basically she'd spent that first hour of the day trying not to throw up as Hotch sat across the table from her tapping his pen in irritation.

But then after the briefing ended . . . and she'd evaced out liked she was taking enemy fire . . . ten minutes later their paths had inadvertently crossed in the kitchen. Though she'd damn near had a panic attack at the time, the run in had turned out to be a very good thing. Because when she'd been in the briefing and assumed he hated her guts already, she'd been trying to avoid being alone with him before they left for the airport. If he wanted to rip her a new one she'd just wanted to avoid the public humiliation of that horrible scene unfolding in front of the Unit at large.

Having to leave the Bureau was one thing, having to leave the Bureau in public disgrace was another thing entirely.

So Emily had waited until she was sure Hotch was in his office before she'd slipped down to the break area for a refill on her coffee. But then he'd surprised her by popping up off the back stairs.

At first she'd had a heart attack thinking that he'd been waiting for a chance to corner her. But that theory was shot to hell when he simply nodded hello before picking up the nearly empty coffee pot and splitting it evenly between their two cups without her even asking.

That's when she knew that whatever was bothering him had nothing to do with her. Nobody shares a pot of coffee and a polite nod with the person that he's hoping to see nailed to a cross in the center of the Mall.

So that had set her mind at ease on the whole '_outing of her Judas status_' thing pre their trip.

Emily had additional confirmation that she wasn't the one he was mad at twenty minutes later when Hotch had completely . . . and uncharacteristically . . . EXPLODED! And she had most definitely been nowhere in his visual range when that had happened. The explosion had been directed at that schmuck Agent Gutierrez. He wasn't even FBI, he was ATF, working on a task force tracking stolen guns being funneled to right wing militia groups in the southwest. The only reason they even had contact with him was because of the occasional need for the task force to consult with the BAU on proper procedures for hostage negotiations prior to any weapons raids.

That had been SOP for the last six years to prevent a repeat of Waco or Ruby Ridge.

And unfortunately for Gutierrez their briefing today just happened to coincide with Hotch showing up with an ENORMOUS chip on his shoulder. And though Emily was concerned about Hotch personally . . . clearly something was really bothering him . . . she didn't actually feel badly at all for the person on the receiving end of that loss of temper. Actually the irony of walking back from the bathroom to see the jackass getting reamed out in front of the entire bullpen . . . not to mention half the task force . . . because Hotch had heard HIM snapping at people in the office one too many times, gave Emily a faint bit of amusement. Like Hotch, she'd seen Gutizerrez bite somebody's head off at least a half dozen times over the last six months so she didn't feel any sympathy at all for him having a little '_what goes around comes around'_ bite him on the ass. But after it was over it became clear that she was the only one that felt that way.

After Gutierrez had ducked out with his tail between his legs, everyone remaining within the glass fortress had given Hotch a wide berth as they tried to keep their mouths shut and their heads down until he'd left for the airport. Two seconds after Hotch slammed his door shut, Morgan and Reid had both muttered to her that they were glad that she was the one going with him and not them.

And even JJ, the person Emily always felt Hotch seemed closest to next to Gideon, had given Emily a sympathetic pout as she saw them heading out with their bags. And that was twenty minutes AFTER she'd pulled Emily aside to give her a pep talk on how to handle Hotch when he was being really grumpy and that she hoped for her sake that he'd gotten the worst of whatever was bothering him today out of his system when he'd unloaded on Gutierrez.

The whole conversation was rather surreal.

Though Emily could of course appreciate her colleagues' discomfort with Hotch's uncharacteristic behavior, once she'd determined that his behavior had nothing to do with her, she wasn't really all that concerned with his mood.

Hotch hadn't raised his voice to her in anger in over seven months so, regardless of Gutierrez's dressing down . . . which had probably been building for awhile . . . she thought it unlikely that their boss would take whatever was bothering him out on her today.

And looking at the sunny side of that situation . . . which she was trying to do because overall the rest of her life was pretty damn depressing . . . if he _was_ in a bad mood, that meant it was less likely that he'd want to talk about anything of a non work nature with her on their trip.

Personal conversations weren't going to do anything but make her feel even guiltier and more depressed about what Strauss was doing to him.

Them. What she was doing to them. They were both getting royally screwed.

Emily stopped short again as another elbow shot into the aisle . . . not that Hotch was generally inclined to discuss anything outside of work. But with the exception of sleeping, they would be spending ALL of their time exclusively together for the next forty-eight hours.

And those are a lot of hours to fill when there's no active case to discuss.

And it seemed unlikely that given the narrow focus of their trip, that even Hotch could maintain a steady stream of uninterrupted shop talk for that lengthy a period of time. They were both okay with sitting together in silence, but after awhile somebody has to say something. And the something that was constantly on the tip of her tongue was a full confession of all of the sins that she _hadn't_ committed.

Her guilt over the secret she was carrying was crushing her soul.

But if they could just get through this trip together without her spilling her guts to him, an action which would obviously result in him drop kicking her out of the airplane at 40,000 feet, then she'd be happy enough.

And really . . . she rolled her eyes . . . how sad was it that she was now reduced to ranking a successful trip as one where there was no intra-team homicide?

Yeah, pathetic.

After squeezing around yet another person who had their ass in the aisle . . . dig the books out of your carry-ons AFTER the other people pass by jackass . . . Emily finally arrived at their row.

Crap.

Though she'd known that the late booking had resulted in them being in the way back of the plane, Emily hadn't realized just how far back the _way_ back was until they got there. And now that she was standing there, she wasn't at all pleased about their location.

Her jaw started to twitch nervously . . . she wasn't at all a fan of turbulence and the back of the plane was always a bumpier ride than the front. And God knows she really didn't need to add any more tension to her already overwrought nervous system.

She was going to end up in the loony bin before her thirty-ninth birthday.

Oh well . . . she shook her head slightly as she shifted her bag off her shoulder . . . no use thinking about the location. It wouldn't make the plane fly any more smoothly.

"Prentiss?"

Pausing as she was about to heft her bag up to the cabinet, Emily turned to look behind her.

"Yeah Hotch?"

Trying to keep the irritation out if his voice, Hotch jerked his head behind them, "why don't you sit down and I'll do both bags in a second."

At present he had a family of five up his ass and he'd like to let them go passed to their seats in triple z or wherever the hell they were. But he couldn't do that until he got out of the aisle. And he couldn't get out of the frigging aisle because Prentiss was blocking their entire damn row!

'_All right, calm down Aaron,'_ he berated himself with a slow breath, _'you're not angry at Prentiss, you're upset with Haley. Keep it straight.'_

He'd had another fight with his wife at breakfast . . . another really bad fight. And he was starting to get a sinking feeling about the state of his marriage. He just didn't understand where all of the anger and resentment were coming from because Haley had never been like this before. Of course she'd never loved his job at the Bureau, but as far as Hotch could see, most people were not huge fans of their spouses having dangerous careers. So he'd always figured that her discomfort was normal. But somewhere along the way that discomfort had morphed to something else.

Something ugly and bitter.

And it pained him to admit that he didn't know how to get them back to where they were before. This morning's fight again circled around the idea of him quitting the BAU . . . and that was a deal breaker. This was the pinnacle of his career, he was leading one of the most elite groups in the FBI, their work had, without question, saved _hundreds_ of lives since the Unit's inception. And she wanted him to walk away from all of it. His anger started to spike up again . . . it was ludicrous.

Emily looked behind the jaw twitching Hotch to see a sweaty man with a baby carrier, a once pretty woman with a toddler on her hip, and a bored pre teen playing with some video game.

"Oh," she immediately dropped over to the second seat in their row as she apologized to her boss, "sorry. I didn't realize there was anyone behind us."

'_Good job Em, you were just bitching to yourself about the dumbasses that blocked the aisle!'_

As soon as Emily was out of the way, Hotch stepped into the row and dropped his bag on the seat. And then they waited while the family . . . clearly tourists . . . traipsed passed. Once they'd cleared and had begun dropping into the seats in the middle two rows behind them, Emily's gaze shifted to see Hotch still staring in their direction. And even though part of her said to mind her own damn business, she couldn't stop her tongue from asking the question.

"Are you okay sir?" she asked softly.

Okay, yes, she might have just been thinking two minutes ago how happy she'd be if they could avoid making any interpersonal connections during this trip, but that was before she saw the look on Hotch's face.

Sadness.

And that was one emotion that she couldn't just ignore. Usually Hotch just looked like Hotch, a man who let only the faintest of emotions seep through his stoic façade. But what she was seeing on his face now, that wasn't faint, that was a naked vulnerability that she'd never seen on him before.

His defenses had completely fallen down.

"What?" Hotch blinked as he looked down at the woman in front of him. And when she repeated softly, "I said are you okay sir?" that's when he realized that his momentary lapse in concentration hadn't gone unnoticed.

"I'm _fine_ Prentiss," he responded sharply, trying to shake off her concern as he reached for her bag. The last thing he wanted today was to start up a personal dialogue.

Though as he saw Prentiss flinch at his tone, Hotch realized that he might have shaken her off a bit more harshly than he'd intended.

Damn it!

He was having a _real_ problem today allowing his internal irritation with his wife, bleed into his external dialogue with everyone else, so as he looked down at the faint pink tinge on Emily's cheeks as she fumbled to pull her case file from her bag, he murmured a soft, "Prentiss," and when she looked up he tipped his head, continuing in the same quiet tone, "thank you for asking."

Her gaze remained locked on his for a moment before she nodded slightly . . . it was an unspoken acknowledgment for the unspoken apology. And then she gave him a little smile and turned back to her bag. But the smile didn't make him feel better about what he'd done, because the smile had been faint, and it had been tinged with sadness. And he knew then that his mood was affecting hers, and that's not what he wanted.

But he had nothing else to add, nothing to say to make things better.

Given the atrocious status of his home life, it was clear that regardless of how much psychological training he had, or how many manuals he wrote or interviews he conducted, his ability to handle his own interpersonal relationships still remained an area far outside his expertise. So though he knew that he should say something more to Prentiss now, something to set the right tone for the trip . . . he didn't.

He just watched silently as she pulled her case file out of her bag and then she zipped up the duffel again. Neither of them said anything as she passed the bag to him, but then their fingers brushed right before she pulled her hand away and her eyes snapped up and locked on his for just the briefest of seconds.

It was a moment . . . one where he could have said all of the words sitting on the tip of his tongue.

'_I'm sorry for snapping at your question. And I'm sorry that I'm making an already unpleasant and stressful flight even more awkward for both of us. But please know that it's not you, you didn't do anything wrong. It's just that my marriage is falling apart and I don't know how to fix it. And by the time I figure it out I'm afraid that there won't be anything left to fix.'_

But he didn't say any of those things. Instead he just swallowed the apology down as he stowed her bag in the overhead compartment. And as he did so he felt a faint bitterness and disgust at his own cowardly behavior. Regret that he wasn't a better man. One more capable of engaging in honest and open relationships.

One simply capable of making a new friend.

These were old issues though, ones he'd had since childhood, so they certainly weren't going to get resolved today. So as he leaned down to pull out his own paperwork, he decided to let them go.

Once he figured out how to fix what was wrong with his relationship with Haley, then he'd start trying to fix what was wrong with his relationships with all the rest of them.

Decision made to move on to the next thing, Hotch jammed his bag into the cabinet next to Emily's. And then he dropped down into the aisle seat beside her. While he was busy with the bags she'd shifted over to the window.

As Hotch took note of the faint smell of diesel and realized how close to the tail they were, he realized that they were in the worst part of an airplane for somebody with a phobia about turbulence. And it was well known amongst the team members that Prentiss had a _major_ problem with turbulence.

That was a revelation that had come out about after she'd started with the Unit. It was the first time after she'd arrived that they had flown through a storm and as the plane began to bounce, her agitation had become more and more apparent. Only when pushed by both JJ and Morgan did she reluctantly explain about the time she had been caught in the opening spirals of a hurricane as she was flying out of North Carolina. A thirty-five minute climb while being tossed about like a rag doll, and that ever since then flying in bad weather . . . or more specifically the resulting increase in violent air turbulence . . . had made her very uncomfortable.

At the time Emily had shared that story, two things had been clear to Hotch, her embarrassment at having this phobia, and her concern that they would see it at as a weakness. Not that she'd actually come out and said either of those things, but he did read behavior for a living and that read had been as plain as the nose on his face. And he had been sympathetic, especially given how much of an outsider she had still been at that point. The others had been kind though. Derek had tried to distract her with cards, and Reid had tried to distract her with statistics, but she didn't really seem to come back to her normal self again until they had landed.

Since that day, whenever they flew through a bad pocket of turbulence it always resulted in the same uncharacteristic ruffling of Prentiss' usually unruffleable feathers. So knowing that the tail was going to offer them a bumpy ride today, Hotch was able to murmur an apology to her for the one thing that had absolutely nothing to do with him, his wife or his fucked up childhood.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get anything closer to the front of the plane," he said quietly, "these were the last seats they had."

"It's okay," Emily blew out a puff of air as she clicked her seatbelt, "I checked the weather and it's supposed to be clear all the way to Oklahoma, then it might get a little bumpy."

She'd found that she did much better when she at least knew the bumpy ride was coming. That way she could rationally tell herself that it was to be expected and that there was absolutely no indication that there was anything wrong with the plane. Of course she tried to rationally tell herself that anyway, but it worked better when she had some concrete weather reports to back her up.

Hearing Prentiss' response, a hint of a smile passed over Hotch's lips . . . of course she checked the weather. And the flight wasn't that long so hopefully they'd have a quick departure and be landing before there was time for any issues to develop.

"So," Emily pushed her turbulence concerns aside as she turned to look at Hotch, "do you want to run through anything now or just wait until we land?"

Though they were used to having plenty of prep time on the jet, obviously this was NOT the jet. And given that they didn't have any privacy at all in their current surroundings, any actual case discussion was verboten. But the point of the trip wasn't to solve a case, it was to speak at a parole hearing, so Hotch might have some points to discuss in that regard.

Hotch's jaw twisted as he considered Prentiss' question. Finally he shook his head, "no," he glanced at the people around them, "no, we can save it all for the hotel."

It would just be too difficult to have even a veiled conversation in surroundings like these. He tapped the file folder in her lap.

"Just familiarize yourself with the specifics and when we land we can discuss the evidence and the chain of events."

Emily nodded, opening her mouth to respond when her jaw suddenly snapped shut again. Both she and Hotch froze as the flight attendant poked her head into their aisle to see if they'd buckled up.

Hotch had not.

And hearing the words, "oh sir, let me . . ." as she saw the woman begin to lean over to assist him, Emily flinched. Actually _flinched,_ like somebody was going to hit her, because if there was ONE true thing about Aaron Hotchner, he definitely went through the world with a 'hands off' aura.

Apparently this flight attendant had not received the memo that people were expected to obey that aura.

Admittedly after a few months with the BAU Emily herself had not been quite so intimated by him. But really you spend nine or ten hours a day with people (sometimes sixteen or seventeen hours a day if they were on a case) and you start to get more comfortable with them. More familiar. And though she was certainly not so touchy with Hotch as she would be with Morgan . . . she had other reasons for keeping her distance from Reid and Gideon, though Reid didn't seem to hate her quite so much recently . . . Emily wasn't afraid to invade Hotch's space like most people were.

But _strangers_?

Dear God, if you were a total stranger what in God's name would make you think that TOUCHING Aaron Hotchner was a good idea! Especially TODAY! And as she saw Hotch put his hand up defensively to block the woman's forward momentum, Emily bit her lip, hoping this wasn't going to get ugly.

"I HAVE it," Hotch hissed back frigidly as he raised his arm up, "_thank_ you."

Like he didn't know how to buckle his damn SEAT belt! Did he look like he was five years old? And for Christ's sake, he probably flew as often as the flight attendant did!

Not that she knew that latter point, but still, he stood by his assessment that he was clearly _not_ five. So he wasn't quite sure why the hell she stood there until he was "securely fastened," but she did. And when the woman finally moved on with the tight smile that Hotch was quite sure she reserved for difficult passengers, it was with great difficulty that he restrained himself from growling back at her.

'_It wasn't her fault,'_ he reminded himself irritably as he settled against the seat,_ 'she was just doing her job.'_ And God knows he was tired of having to remind himself to reign in his temper. But his ongoing irritation with Haley was making him . . . what was the word that he had heard Prentiss use earlier?

Grumpy.

That's it. Grumpy. He'd been coming up around the corner when he heard JJ extending her condolences on the trip (condolences being necessary apparently because HE was in a bad mood) and Prentiss had responded that him being _'grumpy'_ didn't faze her. That she didn't take it personally.

And though grumpy was not a word that Hotch would personally use to describe anyone but a dwarf in a diamond mine, he did acknowledge to himself that perhaps he was not in the best of moods. So from that point where he'd realized he was actually making the team feel uncomfortable, he'd made a bit more of an effort to stifle his inward irritation from being outwardly expressed.

Honestly though, it wasn't until he'd heard the women talking that he'd realized his mood was so transparent. It's not like he was generally "cheerful" so he figured that his irritable demeanor would be mistaken for his generally dour demeanor. But of course he'd forgotten that he worked in a behavioral analysis unit.

They could tell the difference.

Ripping that douchebag Gutierrez a new one probably hadn't helped either. But Hotch felt no regrets there, he had deserved it. Granted that was ordinarily a conversation he would have had behind closed doors, but he'd already tried that once. And given that Gutierrez's ongoing obnoxious and asinine behavior had been witnessed by the Unit at large, Hotch felt that him getting his hat handed to him in front of the Unit at large had been the proper way of addressing the matter. He didn't tolerate any bullshit, and if you disobeyed him, then you would live to regret it.

Reminding the larger group of that fact set a good tone.

Hotch sighed as he looked passed Prentiss and out the window to see that they were taxiing to the runway. Feeling the familiar push of rapid acceleration he rolled his neck.

Now if he could just figure out a good tone to take with his wife, all would be well.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/

It was fifteen minutes after the pilot announced they were beginning their initial descent when Hotch felt a slight bump. His eyes immediately shot over to see if Prentiss had woken up.

No.

His gaze shifted back to the book he'd actually remembered to pack when he realized that he couldn't spread autopsy photos around his tray table like he usually did. But then a second later there was a much more violent jolt than the first one.

And then the plane bounced again.

And again.

And again.

When he looked back over to Prentiss after the fourth bump he saw that her eyes were wide open and glued to his. Then he looked down to see her fingers were digging into her thigh and he felt a little ache in his gut.

Though it had taken them a little while to really find their footing with one another, Hotch had grown very fond of Prentiss . . . Emily, he corrected himself, he was trying to break down that separation . . . and it bothered him to see her so clearly frightened now. Especially given that it was his fault that she was on this particular airplane and in these particular seats. So he looked back at his book and made a mental note of his page number before slipping it into the pouch on the seat back in front of him.

Then he took a breath, reached over . . . and picked up her hand.

Such an action was definitely well outside of his usual personal comfort zone . . . he had a general 'hands off' policy when it came to well . . . everyone, but he knew that turbulence was Prentiss' Achilles heel. She may very well have others . . . most people have more than one . . . but this was the one he was aware of. And he had noticed that on the half dozen or so occasions that they had hit bad pockets of weather that when the plane began bouncing around that usually JJ or Morgan . . . once even Gideon . . . would hold her hand until the worst of it had passed. And given that he was the only one of them with her today . . . Hotch lightly squeezed her fingers . . . he knew that he needed to be that person for her right now.

He couldn't think of anything to say to her though. Usually the others made generic chit chat with her at this point. JJ would talk about fashion, Morgan would talk about music or books, once . . . on a good day when he wasn't irrationally blaming her for his drug detox . . . Reid ran through the entire periodic table numerically from highest to lowest and then lowest to highest.

Hotch was not up on his Vogue, his People or his scientific elements so he figured that staying quiet would be best. And after a few seconds he heard Emily whisper, "thanks Hotch," and he turned to see that her gaze was fixed on their joined hands. He watched her for a moment, but his stare didn't go unnoticed as he saw her slowly bring her eyes up to his.

Seeing that they were slightly moist he gave her a little smile as he squeezed her fingers.

"Don't mention it. Though perhaps when we get home you might tell JJ that even the," his eyebrow went up faintly in amusement, "'grumpy bastard' can behave like an actual human being in a pinch."

Emily's eyes widened in surprise . . . he'd heard them talking! Crap! But then she saw the hint of amusement on his face and she realized that he wasn't upset. And . . . she felt the plane shake again . . . she knew that he was trying to be social for her sake, so she gave him a little . . . slightly strained . . . smile back.

"I'll be sure to mention it," she said softly.

Their eyes were locked for another beat before Hotch lightly squeezed her fingers again. And then he settled back into the seat and closed his eyes.

Still though, he kept holding her hand in his.

And when the thunder cracked outside Emily's window and the plane bounced again, she felt his strong fingers tighten around hers.

Her eyes began to fill.

Why did he have to be such a nice guy? Why couldn't he be the cold hearted bastard that so many people outside the unit thought he was? It would make all of this so much easier to bear. Then her dilemma with Strauss would be all about her, her own personal character and how she wasn't going to betray her friends and colleagues.

But instead of just that . . . relatively . . . straight forward dilemma, she was stuck with this one.

Her loyalty to the kindhearted man, with a 'so dry it creaks' wit who would hold her hand during a thunderstorm because he knew that she was irrationally frightened that their plane was about to fall out of the sky. And he did that though she knew that he was not a man comfortable with such a personal physical exchange. This man . . . her gaze shifted to the window as she felt a tear leak out of the corner of her eye . . . this man she'd follow to the ends of the earth.

Her other hand came up to discreetly wipe away the lone tear.

Unfortunately though, she quietly sniffed . . . this could quite possibly be their last outing together.

And that really sucked.

Feeling a wave of melancholy roll over her, Emily knew thinking about these things now was simply exacerbating an already crappy situation . . . she was already nervous as hell, why was she adding sad to the mix too. So she took a breath, and then she took another, and as she felt Hotch's warm hand covering hers, she stared out the rain pelted window, feeling the wind rocking the plane and she tried not to freak out. But then the cup of soda on the tray table across from them fell to the floor. And two seconds after that the flight attendants started rushing passed with trash bags as they announced tray tables up.

Things were getting worse.

Over and over as the plane shuddered up and down . . . and worse . . . side to side . . . Emily fought down the panic, telling herself that everything was fine, that it was just a regular storm and that they would be landing shortly and then it would be over.

And then the lights went out.

And that was the point when all of her happy ending mantras went to shit.

"Hotch," she whispered breathlessly. "Yes, Prentiss," came back the tight response. And hearing that tension in Hotch's tone . . . a man who was ordinarily not rattled by anything . . . Emily's panic spiked up, and she stumbled over the next words out of her mouth.

"I think we're in trouble."

* * *

_A/N 2: If you're familiar with the Girl'verse and you're thinking that this Emily being phobic about turbulence is a totally new thing that I inserted here in this story solely for dramatic purposes, it's not ;) Over in Falling in Love With a Girl, chapter 24, Our Tribe, is where it was first referenced. It was a passing thing without the back story on why and there was a much later chapter planned for that story, after they coupled off which was going to explore that phobia a bit more fully, but I ended up moving that chapter over to Second Chances. Yes, I acknowledge the story's existence, and yes it will get wrapped up eventually :) _

_As to Hand Holding Hotch, though he is not touchy feely with Emily at this point in Girl proper I noticed on a repeat of Fisher King that he patted Elle affectionately on the arm when he sent her home to sleep (though side note, in retrospect that did turn out to be a bad call on his part) and that was a year earlier than this. Plus later in season 4 he did take the hand of the female serial killer when she was dying so I figured Hotch in between would be able to extend himself for a nervous Emily like a regular person would without it being a thing. He doesn't have psychological problems, he's just reserved. _

_Half of the next one's written, and provided I can get the time to write this week, hopefully it'll be done for next weekend. Fracture up later today! As always thanks for the feedback!_


	3. The Scales Tip

**Author's Note**: So sorry for the very unexpected delay here. Sometimes that happens. You're trudging along just fine and suddenly the whole little fictional world gets sucked up in a fog.

This is a direct continuation of the last scene.

**

* * *

The Scales Tip**

Hearing the quiver in Emily's voice, Hotch froze for a second as he tried to think of how to respond to her fear.

Given the nature of his work, ordinarily platitudes rolled off of his tongue with minimal effort. Extending himself to comfort those in need was second nature to him. But today he wasn't trying to offset the intangibles of grief or trauma, today he needed to say something to reassure one of his agents that their airplane wasn't about to slam into the ground going 250 miles per hour.

There was nothing in the scripts for a situation like that.

And given the frantic behavior of the flight attendants . . . Hotch's jaw twitched as he saw one of them race back into the galley again . . . and the fact that their cabin was presently only illuminated by emergency floor lights and the flashes from the storm outside the windows, Hotch couldn't deny that he was definitely feeling a level of _personal_ agitation well above the norm. Not that he could actually envision them plummeting to earth.

But he wasn't Emily.

He didn't possess her experiences or her imagination. And truly, he didn't know _what_ the hell was going on right now. Which made it difficult to muster up a soothing rational counter argument for himself, let alone for her. Still though . . . his gaze shifted over to see her free hand was now balled up in her lap . . . it was clear that the longer he went without saying anything, the worse he was making the situation.

And the situation was bad enough as it was.

So with the tension now rolling off of Emily in palpable waves, he decided to just open his mouth and wing it.

"Prentiss, look at me."

Nothing.

"Prentiss."

Again . . . he bit his lip as the plane took another violent jolt . . . nothing.

That's when he saw that his delay really had made things worse. She was refusing to engage with him. Instead her gaze was fixed down on their joined fingers.

She was staring at them like they held the secrets of the universe.

But then he realized . . . perhaps they did. That was the most important thing in a situation like this . . . one where your choices had been taken so far beyond your control . . . just having a connection with another person.

It was a tangible reminder that you weren't alone.

So as the plane took another violent dip and Hotch heard the first murmurs of controlled panic begin to spread among the passengers around them, he just rubbed his thumb slowly back and forth against Emily's wrist.

And then he waited.

After a moment she lifted her head, and he tipped his down so he could catch her eyes in the shadows.

Even in the semi-darkness he could see the terror here . . . it was yet another dig in his gut. Day in and day out he felt the burden of command, of putting people in situations where they could be injured or killed. Even when it was a situation like today . . . where the danger was inadvertent and unexpected . . . it didn't make it any easier for him.

The fact that he hadn't developed an ulcer yet truly was a shock.

"Prentiss," he whispered as he tried to push his own issues aside, "everything's going to be okay. The storm's just a storm and the lights, I know it's disturbing but that is not in and of itself indicative of any underlying catastrophic issue. It's just the cabin lights, they aren't necessary to fly the . . ."

Hotch's speech was cut off by the pilot's booming voice coming through the speakers.

"Everyone please remain seated with all seatbelts fastened. We've clearly been hitting some heavy air pockets as we move through this line of thunderstorms, and they have caused some _minor_ electrical issues. But don't worry about the cabin lights, there are redundancies built into the system for just this kind of situation. Everything will be just . . ."

And his voice disappeared for two beats before coming back in a slight rush. "Sorry about that folks. Like I was saying, it's just some turbulence and everything's going to be just fine."

And then he was gone again.

Hearing the abrupt click Emily felt a fresh surge of terror hit her system. And for an unexpected change . . . she began to genuinely panic.

But how could she not?

Something had obviously just happened while the pilot was telling them everything was fine. Something bad. Something that he saw on the board that indicated to the man flying the giant metal coffin that things were not anywhere near as A-Okay as he'd just announced to his plane full of terrified passengers!

Oh shit . . . her eyes started burn with new tears . . . oh God! They really were going to CRASH!

Almost simultaneous with that _very_ unhelpful thought slamming into her brain, Emily heard Hotch whisper in her ear, "deep breaths Prentiss, deep breaths," then his fingers were gently lifting her chin, forcing her head to turn, and her eyes back to his, as he said calmly, "I just told you that everything's going to be okay."

Though a moment ago he'd been struggling with what to say to her, surprisingly the fact that the pilot had faltered had been what had steadied Hotch's own voice. Emily Prentiss was his personal responsibility. _He_ was the sole reason that she was on this airplane. And unlike the rest of these terrified people sitting around them . . . his word actually did mean something to her.

"Yeah, but Hotch," Emily started to respond, but hearing the tears hovering in her voice, Hotch gently cut her off, "yeah but nothing Prentiss. I heard the pause too, and yes," he tipped his head, "I agree, most likely something less than encouraging was brought to the pilot's attention while he was talking to us. But," he shook his head, "thinking about the possible negatives going on in the cockpit isn't going to do anything but cause us more stress. We're not flying the plane, we're not in control of the storm, we're not in control of any of this," he shrugged, "as corny as it might sound, literally all we can do right now is just keep good thoughts. The rest of it is beyond our control," he squeezed her hand, "agreed?"

An admission like that was not as difficult for him to make as people might think. Yes, he was a fairly controlling Type A personality . . . but he'd also taken enough psychology courses to choke a horse. And the first thing you learn in a position like his was when to let things go.

It was the only way to keep your sanity.

Emily stared at Hotch for a moment, his words racing through her mind. Finally a tight smile touched her lips and she nodded.

"Agreed."

He was right . . . he was always right . . . this whole situation was beyond their control. She knew that . . . intellectually of course she'd known that from the beginning . . . but she'd been allowing her past personal trauma to affect her emotions.

To affect her behavior.

She wasn't acting like a cool, competent FBI Agent . . . she felt a wave of scorn . . . she was acting like a chick.

A scared weepy little girl.

Pathetic.

And as another bitter thought came to her, she took a deep breath and blinked the moisture from her eyes. What if God forbid one of these frightened people in the cabin completely lost it and started running amok? The way she was behaving, it would be totally on Hotch to assert order again. And that was not how she was trained.

Or how she'd been raised.

If she couldn't be relied on as backup in an emergency, it would be an embarrassment to her family name, to her own personal reputation . . . and to her boss. For as long as she was assigned to him . . . two more days or two more weeks, whatever it was . . . her behavior reflected on Hotch. So she needed to get her shit together.

And she needed to do it right now.

So she slowly exhaled as her gaze shifted passed Hotch, to the window on the other side of the cabin. Though she wanted to look away from the storm . . . she didn't. She pushed down her fear and pulled on her Agent Prentiss persona. It was like Kevlar.

And it had gotten her through worse than this.

"I'm sorry for freaking out," she said softly while watching another spear of lightning shoot across the sky, "it was unprofessional." Then her eyes snapped back to his, "and thank you for what you said," she gave him a sad smile, "I know I was being stupid for getting so frightened. I'm sorry."

"Hey," Hotch scowled slightly at her choice of words, "it's not stupid to be afraid Prentiss. Sometimes it's stupid _not_ to be afraid. It doesn't make you weak," he shook his head, "and you didn't freak out, you just had a little moment of humanity." His expression softened slightly, "I don't think any less of you for it, and I don't want you to either. Sometimes . . ."

And he stopped for a moment, his jaw twitching as he debated whether to say the thing on the tip of his tongue.

What the hell . . . another crack of lightning went off out the window . . . if you couldn't be honest in a situation like this, then when the hell could you be?

"Sometimes," he continued softly, "I think you're too hard on yourself Prentiss. That you expect too much of yourself." Seeing her eyes widen in surprise, Hotch tipped his head, "or perhaps it's that you think that I expect too much of you. And if it's me," he squeezed her hand, "if I'm the one that's putting too much pressure on you, then I'm sorry. I think you do exceptional work. You've come so far so fast. Even if I hadn't known it at the time," a faint smile passed his lips, "you really were a necessary addition to the team."

Though he'd thought that Emily would be pleased by his remarks . . . that he'd finally shown her a sliver of the praise that he should have been showing her for months now . . . Hotch was shocked when instead she stared at him for a moment before suddenly bursting into tears.

What the hell?

Emily dropped Hotch's fingers like they were on fire. Then she brought her hands up to her face and began to weep. Fortunately their fellow travelers were too wrapped up in the storm to even notice.

"I have to tell you something," she sobbed quietly into her hands, "and you're going to be angry. But please know that it wasn't me," her voice cracked, "it was never me. It was her."

Though she'd had ZERO intention of spilling her guts on this plane ride, when he'd launched into that sweet, wonderful . . . totally unexpected . . . speech, she'd suddenly realized that she couldn't keep this secret from him any longer.

Just hiding it from him was becoming a betrayal in and of itself. He needed to know what she knew. It was the right thing to do.

It was the only thing to do.

Because God knows that a man as good and decent as he was, deserved to know what was coming. But it wasn't until he was telling her how necessary she'd become to the team that she'd realized how foolish she was in thinking that this would all just end with her. When she left there would be a vacancy again.

And that vacancy would have to be filled.

Without a doubt, a new transfer was going to magically appear in Hotch's office just as she had so many months ago. And Strauss wouldn't make the same mistake twice. The next pigeon would definitely play her game. And then Emily's sacrifice would have been for nothing.

They'd destroy him.

So she lifted her head, trying desperately to get her crying under control as she wiped her hand under her eyes. And when she looked up, she could see the confusion and alarm on Hotch's face.

Just as he opened his mouth, she put her hand up.

"Please, just let me get it out," she sniffled, "and then you ask me whatever you want, okay?"

Hotch stared at Emily for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell had triggered this, whatever it was . . . he came up blank. So he just nodded slowly.

"Okay."

Though he didn't know what was happening right now, as he started tracking back over Emily's recent behavior he realized that something had clearly been off for a little while. He'd thought maybe she was coming down with something . . . and she'd tried to tell him last night that it was just allergies . . . but now he was thinking the problem was much bigger than that.

And the problem had something to do with him.

Emily sniffled again as she turned in her seat to look at this man that she was now trusting her entire future to. What she was telling him . . . the fact that she had chosen to break Strauss' confidence . . . this was the type of secret that could destroy her career. Not just her career with the FBI.

That was already done.

No, if it got out, this was the type of thing that would follow her wherever she went. So with her fears about the storm still raging around them now pushed aside, she tried desperately to work her way through this new tempest.

She just tried to make her world right again.

"All right," she took a breath, "what I'm going to tell you, I just found out myself. And please," she pleaded with him, "please believe me when I say that I knew nothing about this before. I never agreed to it. It wasn't what I signed on for, and I would never," she shook her head vehemently, "never betray you."

"Prentiss," Hotch said slowly, "please just tell me what happened."

As she was talking his brain had continued to whirl . . . and there was one word that was swirling around the center of that vortex.

Her.

Prentiss had said "Her." And he could only think of one Her that could have the woman in front of him so out of sorts.

Strauss.

And then he saw Emily wipe her hand under eye and a second later his supposition was confirmed.

"A week ago Strauss pulled me into her office . . ."

That was enough for him.

His lip quirked up slightly . . . it was a cold smile.

That witch.

"Let me guess," he cut in, "that she believes that I'm running a shoddy crew, that my poor leadership is endangering not only people's lives, but tarnishing the Bureau's reputation, and that it's your duty to help her take me out."

He should have seen this coming. _Why _hadn't he seen this coming?

'_Haley_,' a little voice whispered. He'd been too distracted by his problems with Haley. And now he was paying for it.

He and Prentiss both were.

Emily's eyes popped, "how did you . . . yes. I mean," her voice faded, "yes."

Then she paused for a second, she hadn't expected him to just . . . guess. It threw her off for a moment, but then she remembered.

There was more he needed to know.

So she cleared her throat and started again.

"When I told her that I disagreed completely with her conclusions, and that I thought you were doing an excellent job, then she got angry . . . nasty. She said," Emily stumbled slightly, "she said that it wasn't a debate, that it was an order. And if I didn't help her that she would let it leak that I was a mole. That she'd make sure that I was a pariah," her eyes started to water again, "and that you would think that I'd been reporting on you from the beginning. It was an ultimatum, I destroy you or she destroys me."

Hotch's gaze raked over Emily before his eyes locked on hers again. His tone was even as he asked the million dollar question.

"And what did you do?"

Though he believed Prentiss when she said that she wouldn't betray him, he also could see what an impossible situation Strauss had dragged her into. It was a test of character.

Of moral fortitude.

Him or her. So now he was going to find out . . . just how loyal was she?

Emily's brow wrinkled at Hotch's question. "I already told you sir, I would never betray you. I went home and typed up my resignation," she took a breath, "I'm holding it until I can find another agency that will take me as a transfer, or until Strauss starts making things too hard for me to stay any longer. I'd like to get something else lined up before I go, but really," she sighed, "if push comes to shove, I'm gone."

"You're quitting your job," he asked incredulously, "for me?"

Okay, he wasn't expecting that one. Wow. And there was his answer.

Loyalty without question.

"Yeah," Emily tipped her head, "well, for both of us I guess. But," she reached over and touched his arm, "I'm really sorry I didn't tell you all of this that first night."

When Emily touched his arm, Hotch eyes widened as a memory flashed in his mind.

"That night I found you crying in the bullpen," he asked, "was that about this?"

"Yes," her voice started to get husky and she cleared it, "I'd just left her office. That's when I knew I needed to leave. And I wanted to tell you what had happened, but I was just so afraid that you'd blame me. That she was right and that you'd think that I really had been spying on you all this time. So I thought that if I just removed myself from the situation then she couldn't hurt you," Emily shook her head, "but I was being short-sighted. She's going to keep coming after you no matter what I do," she gave him a sad smile. "I just want you to have a fighting chance."

For the first time in a week, Emily felt as though she could take a deep breath again. Hotch was notoriously hard to read, but he didn't seem to be angry with her. And the fact that he'd immediately deduced what Strauss had done went to his clearly understanding her character . . . or lack thereof.

Though he was clearly upset, he didn't really seem that surprised.

And now that Emily had unburdened herself to him, that horrible pit in her stomach was gone. God knows what Hotch was going to do with this information, but that didn't matter. He could go straight to the Director for all she cared. All that that mattered was that she could now look herself in the mirror again. The rest of it . . . who knows?

Those chips would fall soon enough.

Hotch's jaw started to twitch as he thought back on that night in the office . . . Emily had sobbed on his shoulder. She'd been so upset that he'd actually thought that somebody had died. But no . . . he felt his temper flare . . . that was just Strauss. Strauss destroying her life.

Emily had become collateral damage in her petty little political war.

Hotch's hand clenched into a fist just as the pilot came back again. This time he announced that they'd be clearing the worst of the turbulence soon enough. That they were being diverted to Shreveport because of the weather.

There were tornados on the ground outside Houston.

That announcement momentarily pushed the Strauss revelations . . . and the implications thereof . . . out of Hotch's head. Then he cursed at the realization that they were going to be landing hundreds of miles from where they needed to be. If they couldn't get another flight out immediately . . . unlikely given the need for the diversion at all . . . they were going to be driving half the night.

As the plane bounced again, he turned to see Emily staring up at him. She was biting her lip.

"What are we going to do now sir?"

They both knew that the question wasn't just about the parole hearing. And he sighed as he shook his head.

"I don't know Prentiss." His gaze shifted passed her and out to the rain running down the window.

"But I'll figure something out."

_

* * *

A/N 2: So many places I wanted to cut this, but I knew if I did that I'd end up with another huge delay again. Because the story, as it's always been in my head, is not about what you've seen so far. It's something else entirely. But what happened on the flight, and the confession that triggered in that moment that would not have come together otherwise, it was crucial to move them forward to what's coming next. So though my instinct was to cut them (for dramatic purposes) when Emily burst into tears, I knew if I did that, then it would be another month before I got back to this again. It would have been pulling together another transitional chapter. I hate transitional chapters. But NOW, finally the set up is done and we can move to the nitty and the gritty. _

_Given how quickly Hotch deduced Strauss' treachery in canon, I figured once he had two and two to put together he'd make the same easy leap here. So that would be the game changer moment where they move to AU. Things would have been very different if Emily had gone to Hotch and told him what had happened. Even in canon of course that whole drama is seen as the crucial bonding moment between them, but how different would it have been if he'd known what was happening before the campus rapist and the suspension? And logically, as I was writing this, I saw that as Emily, you would have had to realize at some point that leaving wasn't going to solve the bigger problem. She'd just be ruining her career, and then a month later Strauss would have rolled in a new mole. Hotch still would have been screwed and she'd have tossed aside her future at the FBI for nothing. But given that the situation went the way it did, I don't consider that a plot hole, just an alternate series of events that they could have explored if they'd dragged out the storyline a bit longer. _

_So again, sorry for the super huge delay here, I promise we've now rolled to where I wanted to be so there won't be another six month gap before the next one._

_FYI: Another posting tomorrow night in a different Girl'verse story. Yes, we're on quite the roll this week :)_


	4. Deep Waters Ahead

**Author's Note: ** Trucking right along. They're now off the plane and continuing their journey from Shreveport to Houston via rental car.

It's going to be a bumpy ride.

**Side note:** If you read my profile I was anticipating getting 3 postings up this weekend. However, I was _not _anticipating two fairly incapacitating out of the blue migraines being thrown into that mix. So a solid 10 hours of the last 72 (and these would be the standard "waking" hours) have been spent in a dark room with eyes screwed shut doing nothing at all but wasting hours of my life wondering why it was that the universe hated me so much. Just super lucky I guess :) So we'll do this one, maybe if things go well, one more later Monday.

* * *

**Deep Waters Ahead**

Emily slowly unscrewed the cap on her water bottle as she shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of the rental car Hotch was maneuvering at a snail's speed down the Interstate. Given the horrendous weather . . . a series of super cell storms was rolling across the region . . . Hotch had opted not to even attempt to try to catch another flight out from Louisiana.

She could have kissed him for that.

So instead of flying, they were traveling the rest of the way from Shreveport to Houston by car. And though Emily was thrilled to be on the ground again, so far even she had to admit that the car ride had been almost as much of a white knuckle adventure as the plane had been. Not that she was phobic here, but (as always), people were driving entirely too fast for the road conditions. Said road condition inclusive of sheets of rain and pebble sized hail covering the concrete they were driving on. So yeah, let's go eighty!

Morons, she thought with disgust as another idiot flew by, it was like people had a death wish or something. They'd barely been on the road for an hour and Emily had already seen three fender benders around them, plus two bad accidents on the other side of the highway.

The driving conditions really were horrible.

Though . . . Emily's stomach began to churn as she took a tentative sip from her bottle . . . if she was being honest with herself, it wasn't actually the storm or the crazy drivers that were causing the bulk of her discomfort and agitation at that moment. They certainly weren't helping of course. But given her very recent concerns about their plane plummeting to the earth in a fiery red ball of flames, in principle this mode of slip and slide travel was still going to remain infinitely more appealing.

So no . . . she nervously rubbed her belly as the bottle came to rest on her thigh . . . the real problem right now wasn't so much what was going on outside the car as _inside _the car. And what was going on inside the car was absolutely nothing. Not a thing. Not a sound. Not a word exchanged since she and Hotch had left the airport.

That was forty seven minutes ago.

At first she hadn't noticed how quiet it was. The rain . . . storms especially . . . when you were watching them swirl and whip around you, had a way of making you feel like you were in kind of a cocoon. The silence was peaceful. But then slowly . . . after they'd passed their third accident without any verbal acknowledgment from either of them . . . Emily had started to notice how strange it was that they hadn't spoken at all. After all a lot had just happened on the plane. Their entire relationship . . . professional and personal too really, they were in a special rowboat now . . . had just shifted completely left of center. And they weren't talking about that.

They weren't talking about anything.

Yes, granted . . . she slowly twisted the cap back on her bottle . . . Hotch did obviously need to focus on his driving right now. And this also wasn't a man that was particularly verbose on the best of days. And this clearly, by no measurable standards, would be considered a best day.

But still, in the eight months that they'd been working together, Emily couldn't recall the last time that Hotch had been this quiet, for this long.

It was very unsettling.

And as much as she wanted to just open and her mouth and say something, _anything_ to chase this horrible emptiness from the space . . . now she was too scared. Because really, it was one thing for them to be sitting there in silence because they both chose to keep their mouths shut. It was another thing entirely if she started talking to him and then he said absolutely nothing in return.

That would be awful.

Because then she'd know that all of those worst fears . . . the ones now churning her guts . . . had likely come true. That somehow Strauss had managed to drive a wedge between them. Not that Hotch had seemed upset with her on the plane . . . on the contrary he'd seemed appropriately pissed at Strauss alone . . . but now that he'd had time . . . _ample_ time . . . to consider the situation, Emily feared that he might have come to a very different conclusion than he had when she'd initially told him what had happened. Maybe he'd decided that even if the initial set up by Strauss was something beyond Emily's control, that if her loyalty to him and the team had truly meant anything to her, that she would have said something to him much earlier.

That it wouldn't have taken her storm induced panic and hysteria to spill her guts.

And he might have also decided that she should have tried harder to protect them rather than just looking for her own way out. And if those were possibly thoughts in his head . . . and though it pained her, Emily couldn't deny that they were very _logical_ and therefore very Hotchlike thoughts . . . he might have decided that he _did _blame her for what was happening.

That he was pissed off at how she'd handled everything.

Or worse even . . . Emily's hand slowly curled into a fist . . . he might have decided that he was disappointed in her. Pissed she could take . . . she was fairly pissed at herself for being played a fool . . . but if he was disappointed . . . that would be something else.

That would just hurt.

Hurt so much actually that her stomach was twisting at just the thought of it. That's why she was so uncomfortable. She'd worked hard to gain his respect . . . to truly earn her place on his team . . . and now their whole relationship might have just washed away with the storm.

And she might have simply been sitting there tapping her fingers on the glass while it happened.

At that thought, Emily so badly just wanted to just ask the damn question . . . are we okay? But she was still terrified by the answer. Or again the possibility of no answer. Because then they'd be stuck for the next four, or possibly six hours . . . they were moving at a snail's pace . . . in a horrendously awkward silence.

That would be torture.

Though . . . a thought occurred to her as she turned slightly to look out the rain slicked window . . . that was kind of what was happening right now anyway. Her brow wrinkled . . . wasn't it?

Really, he already wasn't talking to her, and the silence . . . on her part anyway . . . was becoming simply excruciating. So under the present circumstances . . . circumstances being her curled up in the fetal position on one side of the car . . . how much worse could she _really _make things by attempting to chase this elephant from the car?

She took a breath to steel her courage . . . let's find out.

"Sir," Emily cleared her throat as her eyes shifted over to stare at his profile, "are we okay? I mean we didn't really talk on the plane. And I was wondering, are you upset with me over how I handled the situation with Strauss?"

Startled at the sudden break in the silence, Hotch's head swiveled for a second as his gaze snapped across the front seat.

"What?" Then he processed the words that were spoken and his eyes drifted back to the road as he slowly shook his head. "No Prentiss," he chewed his lip for a second, "I'm not upset with you. Not at all." Then he paused for a moment, his vision filled with the grey world outside their windows.

"I was just thinking," he finished softly.

And then his attention started to fade away from her again. Of course there was more on his mind . . . more on the tip of his tongue . . . but Aaron Hotchner wasn't a man inclined to engaging in heart to heart discussions. Certainly not with subordinates. That would . . . he swallowed . . . well, that just wasn't how he operated. He kept his people at a distance for good reason.

It was simply better that way.

At that thought, for a split second Hotch flashed on Haley screaming about the secrets he kept, but he quickly shook that memory off. It was neither the time nor the place to start dwelling on that situation again. He certainly had enough on his plate right now just worrying about what to do about Strauss.

And Prentiss.

Oh Prentiss . . . he spared her a sad glance . . . what has she done to you? God knows that Hotch didn't want her leaving the Bureau because of Strauss. Or him for that matter. Noble as it was, he didn't want her leaving the Bureau period. Personally, he'd grown quite fond of her over the last eight months, but also professionally he knew that the Unit itself, and the work that they did, would be diminished by her absence. They were blessed to have her. There were people alive in the world because of her.

That was not a contribution to be dismissed by anyone.

After what had happened with Elle, Hotch had admittedly been gun shy about bringing in another outsider that he hadn't had a chance to fully vet. And of course Strauss pushing Emily through the way she had . . . though little had he known the reasons at the time . . . hadn't endeared him to the idea of pulling her personally in at all.

But she'd earned her stripes.

Prentiss' perspective not just as an agent, but as a female profiler specifically, had become invaluable. It gave her insight into women's behavior . . . be it UNSUB or victim . . . that the men just would never have. Not to mention how well she worked with the children. And that was a skill he just couldn't teach.

So he wasn't just going to trade her out for some "new model" . . . he felt another burst of anger . . . that would be ridiculous. But of course he also knew that Emily couldn't stay on now as things stood with the section chief. The moment that woman figured out what she'd done . . . that she'd told _him _what was happening . . . she would destroy Prentiss' career. So he needed to come up with a plan.

Fast.

And the plan needed to be one that not only took Emily out of the line of fire, but also one that eliminated the Strauss issue once and for all. Regardless of whatever benefits she'd once brought to the Bureau, it was clear now that her judgment had become severely compromised by her ludicrous quest for power.

Objectively . . . stepping back from his personal situation . . . Hotch knew from what he'd heard through the grapevine, that Strauss and her petty vendettas against anyone that crossed her, were doing the Bureau overall more harm than good. But then of course personally speaking, there was no way that he could continue to function effectively in his position with the Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. So one way or another . . . Hotch's jaw twitched . . . Strauss had to go.

It was time.

Admittedly . . . he bit his lip . . . it would be nice to get Prentiss' perspective on that point. Not only had he come to value her opinion personally, but overall it would be good just to have someone intelligent to talk through the pros and cons of his courses of action. It might help him to focus and clear his mind.

But . . . he felt a wave of loneliness hit him . . . he couldn't do that.

If he were to tell Prentiss the thoughts that were running through his brain . . . should he confront Strauss directly, take the issue to OPR, or maybe even the director himself . . . that would be a violation of his own personal standards of conduct. It was no reflection on Emily of course. In his level of trust for her.

It was just how he lived his life.

God knows that he didn't discuss his work with Haley. And though there was a time perhaps when he and Gideon were close . . . or closer at least . . . that time had passed. Boston had driven the first wedge between them. All those lost agents. Lost colleagues.

Lost friends.

After that he and Gideon had both started cutting themselves off. Not just from the remaining members of the team . . . but also from each other. Hotch had made the conscious decision to keep his distance from everyone because it seemed logical . . . in some part of his brain anyway . . . that it would hurt less to lose them if he could keep them at arm's length.

That was the theory anyway.

Of course the theory was crap . . . his gaze shifted over to catch Emily's fingers balled into a fist on her lap . . . complete crap. He'd discovered that being so overtly removed actually made it harder to detach from his affection for them. He was there but not there.

The outsider, observing their lives from within.

He could always see when things went wrong, where they were broken . . . but he was never present in that place that he could help fix them. So though he stood by his approach in how he dealt with his team . . . that's how he kept his sanity . . . there was a cost to bear.

It was the harder road to travel.

His eyes shifted over to Emily again . . . and not just for him alone. It was harder for the team as well. So often they needed him to say the words to make things better. And sometimes . . . too many times . . . he had nothing he could give back.

Like right now . . . the guilt pressed into him . . . he could see the tension in Emily's mouth, her limbs . . . he knew that the answer he had given her a moment ago hadn't really comforted her. Because he'd made no effort to connect. He'd simply said the words and turned away. Turned away and left her alone.

Again.

He knew that regardless of what he'd said, his continued silence was causing Prentiss a level of stress and agitation that she didn't need. Nobody did. And he also knew that she would feel so much better . . . as would he really . . . if he could just _talk_ to her. Say what was on his mind as though he were having a real, honest conversation like a regular person.

It had been a long time since he'd done that with anyone.

Yes, he knew that was sad. And sometimes . . . often . . . he missed it. And sometimes, okay again . . . often . . . he wished that he had somebody like that in his life again. In theory that person would be Haley. But again . . . like his other theory about the team . . . that one was crap too. He loved his wife but he'd sooner cut off his own hand than share with her the darkness in his soul.

She'd run screaming.

And Prentiss . . . as fond as he was of her . . . given their working relationship, obviously she would never be that person either. So here he was back to zero again.

Pathetic.

But seeing Emily looking so isolated and alone in the corner, regardless of his personal issues, he knew that it was cruel to leave her the way she was. So he pushed aside a few of his own character defects, cleared his throat . . . and for the second time that day, tried to be a better man than he was.

"Did you happen to get any snacks when you picked up the water?"

A seemingly innocuous question . . . but it wasn't. It was deeper. Because they both knew that the sharing of food was an olive branch.

A connection.

Emily froze for a moment and then took a breath as she slowly turned her head. For a moment she said nothing, and she was just about to look back to the window when Hotch turned his head slightly and their gazes locked. And as she stared for that millisecond, something in his face shifted. There was no smile of course . . . Hotch rarely smiled . . . but there was something about his eyes. She saw them soften . . . warm.

Then suddenly she didn't feel quite so cold.

And as he looked back to the road again, that hard ball of tension left her stomach. Him just telling her that he wasn't upset, hadn't been enough to calm her nerves . . . because she still felt like she was riding with a wall between them.

He'd just knocked the wall down.

"Yeah," Emily's voice was soft as she leaned down to pick up the plastic bag by her feet, "I bought a few things because I figured you didn't want to stop."

Of course she knew for a fact that he didn't want to stop. If their flight had left on time, they would have landed in Houston thirty minutes ago. As it was she knew that they'd be lucky if they got there before dark. So . . . she pulled the bag up into her lap . . . she'd bought not just necessary items to tide them over . . . like the water . . . but also a few things specifically that she knew Hotch liked to eat.

She was trying to make the best of his bad day.

"We're technically missing two meals so I got you a banana, a couple granola bars and some snack bags," Emily said as she rifled through the contents of her purchases, "plain chips and those chocolate covered pretzels you like."

Hotch looked over.

"You bought me chocolate covered pretzels?" He asked in surprise.

"Yeah," she looked back with a shrug, "well, I know they're your favorite."

Hotch just stared for another second before his eyes went back to the wet road.

Again . . . he bit down hard on his lip . . . so hard to stay detached. But after a second he managed to put aside his feelings about what she had done . . . how unexpectedly kind and sweet that was . . . and put his hand out.

"I'll take the pretzels, thanks."

For a second there was rustling as he heard her open the bag, then she placed it into his hand. He moved it over to his lap before slipping out one small little twisted piece of crunchy chocolate.

And a second later, as the salty, sweet taste started to melt on his tongue, Hotch felt another wave of affection hit him . . . but he said nothing more.

Now it was up to her.

And he knew the act alone . . . simply choosing the pretzels that she bought to make him happy . . . was enough for her to accept that what he'd said before was the truth. His mood wasn't about her.

It never was.

As Emily watched Hotch slip a second pretzel into his mouth, her eyes crinkled slightly as the rest of her fears about his feelings for her faded away. Yes, they were still in a hell of a mess at work . . . but now she truly believed that she wasn't navigating that world alone. They were in it together.

And that realization alone made it just that much easier to bear.

So with a considerably lighter heart, she slipped her hand into the bag and pulled out a chewy granola bar. And as she peeled back the wrapper she finally felt free to be herself again.

To simply make conversation.

"How much longer you think?"

It was a little question, but one that you ask to pass the time. And time had been standing still for awhile now. This would kick it forward again. Somebody on the plane had told them that on a good day . . . of which this was not . . . Houston was about four hours away. But given the horrible weather, the subsequent backup in traffic, and the fact that they'd never made the trip before, Emily was budgeting for a solid six hours at least.

Hence twenty bucks worth of snacks and drinks.

"Well," Hotch glanced down at the odometer hovering at thirty and then back to the traffic around them, "unless the weather, the traffic and the road conditions suddenly all improve considerably, I'd say another five hours at least."

Then he heard a huff of agreement from the woman at his side.

"That's what I was thinking too," Emily nodded as she took another small bite of the gooey peanut butter bar. "So," she chewed and swallowed trying to move them back to regular conversation, "seeing as we're totally alone now, did you want to talk about the hearing at all? Or," she winced as the tractor trailer in front of them slammed on his brakes, "would you rather just focus on the driving?" Before he could say anything . . . he was too busy avoiding a massive collision . . . her fingers dug into the seat cushion as she nodded for both of them.

"Yeah," she muttered, "I'm going to retract my question. You just drive."

This was definitely a moment where she was grateful for Hotch's alpha need to be in control of everything. Because as he smoothly avoided the crash and moved them over to the next lane, Emily thanked God that she was want the one driving on this road today. She winced at the squeals of brakes around them . . . because that was another whole ball of stress that she didn't need.

Seeing that the truck in front of him was stopping dead . . . and not wanting to be anywhere near any of the cars that were about to start sliding into him . . . Hotch shifted into Offensive Driving 101.

Get the hell out of here.

He quickly checked his mirrors as he switched over to the high speed lane so he could see what was going on ahead of them. What he saw wasn't good.

Brake lights as far as his vision went.

Emily summed it up best.

"Oh shit," she murmured as she dropped the granola bar into the console, "what the hell is this?"

Then she saw the flashing highway sign to turn to the local am station for an emergency update.

So she did.

It took a moment for the static to clear but then the automated message started playing.

". . . alternate travel routes," her jaw started twitching before she heard the loop begin again. "This emergency travel alert message is being issued by the Texas Department of Public Safety, please be advised that due to rising flash flood waters, portions of US-59 from exits 26 to 37 have been washed out. Drivers are advised that they must seek alternate travel routes."

Realizing that they were about to get trapped in a complete parking lot, it took Hotch only split second to react to that message. It didn't matter where they went . . . they just couldn't stay there.

Emily was already pointing as he hit his blinker again.

"You can do a U-Turn there just beyond the trees. It looks like a speed trap."

She was pretty sure that the troopers wouldn't approve of that maneuver . . . there was actually a big sign advising them emergency vehicles only . . . but it's not like they were on a pleasure trip. They were only on this damn highway because they were trying to keep a multiple murderer from being released back into society again.

That seemed like an emergency to her.

Apparently to Hotch as well, because no sooner had her hand fallen back to her side than he was pulling through the center divide. She knew that some of the people behind them were probably considering taking the same action. But the lanes were quickly sealing off. And if everybody wasn't going to go, then nobody was going to go.

They were stuck.

As it was, even getting into the northbound lane took almost a minute. They needed for the traffic . . . and the visibility . . . to clear enough for Hotch to pull from a dead stop into the lanes heading back towards Shreveport. Not that he was going all that way. He just needed to get his bearings. So as soon as he pulled out . . . he kept moving. Quickly driving them across to the other far lane.

There was an exit just ahead.

As he slowed from his speed of forty to take the slippery turn off the highway, Emily bit her lip.

"Any idea where we're going now?" She asked tightly as they slowly began their way around the curve of the off ramp.

Though she one hundred percent agreed with his decision to get off the Interstate, right now this ride was much worse than the highway had been. At least out there it was open space. Yes open space where some jackass could go careening into you at a high rate of speed, but still, you had a little room to maneuver if things went wrong.

Not so here.

They weren't traveling through a populous section of the state. It was protected forestland. And these exits were only used by people who actual lived out in the small towns beyond them.

They certainly weren't exits used on the _way_ to anywhere else.

And given this was forestland, right now they were on one of those narrow, sharp exits with thick trees surrounding it. There was also a nice little drop off on one side where you could easily roll to your death if you took the corner too fast.

Yeah . . . Emily nervously licked her lips . . . good times.

"No," Hotch jerked his head slightly at Emily's question, "but I didn't want to get trapped back there. At least if we're off the highway we can work our way around the delays."

As the turn started to widen out slightly, Hotch tipped his head towards the glove box. "See if there's a map in there. We just need to get our bearings to figure out which way to go."

The rental had come with a GPS, but that didn't really do them much good when all of the routes it was going to suggest were washed out and/or congested with standstill traffic. They were going to have to do things the old fashioned way. A map . . . he breathed a sigh relief when Emily pulled one out . . . and a little bit of trial and error.

With that they'd be okay.

"All right," Emily sighed as she started unfolding the map in her hands, "give me a second."

Just then they pulled out of the turn, Hotch's eyes widened as he saw what was in front of them.

A faded sign for gas and lodging.

They didn't need the lodging . . . God help him if he was still in this county after sundown . . . but a gas station was just the ticket. They could stop and get fresh directions. So he waved his hand in Emily's general direction.

"Hold that thought Prentiss," he pointed to the sign they were passing on the right, "it says gas seven miles. We'll just stop and ask. It'll be easier than driving to figure it out ourselves."

After all that stop and go traffic he wanted to fill up again anyway. They were at a half a tank and if they were going to be driving wooded back roads, he'd prefer to cross fuel off his list of considerations for any shortcuts.

They had enough to deal with already.

Emily's head snapped up at Hotch's announcement.

"Okay," she started folding the squares again, "good. I hate trying to read these things in the car anyway. At least there we can unfold and ask the guy to point where to go."

This would be a moment in time where Emily was eminently grateful that Hotch did not possess any of the usual ridiculous male stereotypes when it came to asking for directions. He was all about getting to the business at hand, and that meant he had no patience when it came to wasting time wandering around looking for things.

In the past, she'd always seen that the moment he realized that they'd veered off course, he always stopped and regrouped immediately. As far as Emily was concerned, this driving habit was indicative overall of one of Hotch's best qualities.

He never let his pride get in the way of the job.

And for that reason, as soon as he said they were stopping to get directions . . . and probably gas up, she saw they were at half a tank . . . Emily started to relax again. Not that she'd been freaking when they left the highway, but there was that vague '_oh crap, what are we going to do now,'_ anxiety that always comes with an unexpected change in planned events.

But now they had a new plan.

Though as they slowly drove down the secondary road they'd turned onto after the gas sign, Emily's brow started to wrinkle. Taking in their surroundings, she began feel a faint flicker of concern about their new plan. Though they had at least three hours before the sun went down, there was little sunlight here. Between the clouds and the heavy overhang, the grey light wasn't really getting through.

And being lost in the dark . . . even if it was artificial darkness . . . always made her uneasy.

Also though, as the minutes ticked by, she started to feel that little ball of tension forming again. They seemed to be wandering further and further into a backwoods area. She wasn't exactly expecting Times Square crowds, but this was very heavy on the forest, and very short on anything approaching civilization. No signs for a town or even a hole in the wall diner.

That was weird.

There was always that one crappy truck stop just off the interstate. Always. But all they'd seen so far was the highway sign with the gas station symbol on it. And that gas station was located . . . according to the sign . . . almost ten miles away from the main highway. So by all accounts, it looked like they were wandering further and further into the middle of nowhere.

That wasn't good.

Because by Emily's personal experience . . . and official training . . . people who chose to live in the middle of nowhere generally weren't fans of outsiders or the government. Of which they were both.

So this . . . she cringed as something caught her eye . . . was really starting to not seem like a very good place to tell people that they were they were strangers . . . strike one . . . and federal agents . . . strike two . . . before they asked for directions.

And as they passed the third mile marker in as many minutes that had been used for target practice . . . it was full of buckshot holes . . . all Emily could think was that this didn't seem to be a very good place to get directions. Really it didn't seem to be a very good place to get anything except perhaps a membership in the local militia. And she kind of wanted to say something to Hotch.

But what would be the point?

Even if this county . . . township, whatever . . . wasn't going to throw out the welcome mat for them, they still needed the gas and the directions. If the shot up mile markers were correct . . . and bullet holes or not, Emily had no reason to believe they weren't at least in the proper location . . . they were already four miles into the seven, it would be a waste to turn around now. The sooner they got directions, the sooner they could get the hell out of the area.

And that would make everybody happy.

But then Emily caught sight of something else on the side of the road . . . something that caused her jaw to fall open.

"Hotch," she croaked in disbelief, "are you seeing that?"

"What . . .?"

And then Hotch's gaze caught sight of what Prentiss' had a second before . . . his eyes popped open as his foot immediately slammed on the brake.

They stopped short, both of them breathing heavily as they stared through the rain streaked windshield. Because of the rain, Hotch had put the lights on as soon as they'd left the rental location so they had a clear view of what was a few feet in front of them. Though as Emily's stomach turned, she knew that she would have been perfectly happy without quite so many Technicolor details.

Somebody . . . she yanked out her gun just as Hotch did the same . . . had been very busy out here. There was a tree just off the side of the road . . . and that somebody had made it into an old fashioned totem pole. Emily wasn't sure if it an authentic display, but it was certainly an organic one.

They'd used real heads.

Eight of them, six humans interspersed with two animals. And they all looked fairly fresh. At least by decapitated head standards. Even with the heavy rains, the flesh wasn't slipping yet. Though . . . her trigger finger started to itch . . . their eyes were gone. But of course that was always the first thing to go, she reminded herself. It was nature's way.

That still didn't make it any less appalling.

Hotch's heart was racing in his chest as his gaze jumped from the grotesque display in front of them to the darkened woods on either side.

Nothing.

Well . . . his eyes caught with Emily's equally alarmed ones across the front seat . . . nothing he could see. And he could tell from the slight shake of her head that there was nothing that she could see either. Not that it mattered.

They were leaving.

Those bodies were much too fresh . . . he dropped his gun on the seat . . . and they were much too alone . . . he threw the car in reverse . . . they'd turn around, get back up on the highway and call 911.

That was the plan.

But then just as his foot pressed down on the gas, Emily grabbed his arm, hissing that she'd just seen somebody moving off to their right. As his eyes automatically snapped in the direction she'd indicated, he remembered too late that his foot was still on the gas . . . and they were going backwards.

The car rolled over something . . . something big.

OH FUCK!

Feeling his stomach flip as his blood froze, Hotch slammed on the brakes and threw the car in park. Again, he and Emily were frozen, staring in horror through the watery glass. This time though, it wasn't heads they were staring at, as bad as that was . . . this was infinitely worse.

Because this one was his fault.

Lying still and motionless in the road was a body lying face down on the pavement. Based on the style of dress it appeared to be a woman. And though Hotch's immediate instinct was to run to her and try to help. He knew from where he sat trying not to throw up, that that there was no point.

And that was because her head was crushed in.

She was dead.

* * *

_A/N 2: Never leave the main road! Bad things ALWAYS happen when you take a detour. There are at least three movies of the same name that will reiterate this point for you! So yes, NOW we've arrived at the crux of the story. The plane was a red herring. The story is about the detour._

_Bullet holes in road signs always make me uneasy. Just the idea that some jackass felt that such behavior . . . randomly spraying bullets in a public arena . . . was perfectly acceptable. That's troublesome. Of course not as troublesome as a pile of decapitated heads. That would raise a greater degree of alarm than just the bullet holes. _

_It's so weird sometimes writing all these Girl stories because this is the same them that I just posted in Chances, but like ten months earlier in their relationship. And just that complete wall that exists between them right now is so monumentally different than their relationship at the stage they're at in all of the other stories. _

_But, I do like going back to the early days because as I was writing this I was thinking about Hotch of the first couple seasons, and then around the time Emily arrived. And I get that initially actors are figuring out the role and all that, but there's a MARKED difference in Hotch's aloofness (as Gibson portrayed him) from early days to later. And not like later Foyet, just like later Emily. So it's like each little blow he absorbed just closed him further and further off. And the thing with Gideon, thinking about how Hotch is with Dave, he and Jason should have been closer. It wasn't just that Gideon was an ass so much of the time (yes, remember from my Girl notes that he wasn't my fave :)) but more that it seemed they'd once been friends and started drifting apart. Because it was clear that they knew things about each other, but didn't really seem to talk much anymore. So what I put here was my theory on maybe that was. They both started closing themselves off . . . using different methods . . . to attain some distance from the remaining members of the team. So by that theory, maybe if the Dave character had been there from the beginning, Hotch wouldn't have gone down the road he did. And that's kind of the crux of this story, not Dave, but how Hotch will end up bonding with Emily so early on, and how that impacts his character's development, and the rest of their time together. And don't worry, this won't be another epically long tale posting over two years :) I have a plan, and I promise it'll wrap much faster than that. This is an "event" story, so we'll cover the event and then we'll move on to Story 2. The aftermath. _


	5. We All Fall Down

**Author's Note**: Direct continuation of the scene.

**OFF TOPIC**: If anybody out there who doesn't have me on general alert watches Doctor Who, if you're interested, I just put up a two shot in that forum last night.

* * *

**We All Fall Down**

Hotch's eyes began to sting as he stared through the glass. Oh dear God . . . his breath caught . . . what had he done?

No sooner had the question come to him when suddenly to his right, Emily began to weep.

"If I hadn't distracted you . . ." her voice cracked, "oh God Hotch, it's my fault. It's my fault!"

The words ended on a broken sob as her hand clamped over her mouth.

Though Hotch was in a state of shock over what had happened . . . how can things go so wrong, so quickly . . . still, hearing Emily's grief somehow cut through his own. He couldn't have her blaming herself for this catastrophe.

So still staring out the windshield at the lifeless body, he blindly reached across the seat.

"No, Prentiss," his breathing was shallow as he clumsily grasped her wrist, "no, it's not your fault." His voice caught, "I was the one that was driving. It's my fault . . . I killed her."

Saying the words aloud caused him not only mental anguish, but a physical stab of pain in his chest.

He'd actually just killed someone.

Not an UNSUB in the line of duty . . . but a civilian in a careless accident. For just a split second he wasn't paying attention. And now somebody was dead.

How in God's name did he allow that to HAPPEN!

The question came as anguished scream in his mind. But then his rational brain tried to assert itself against the waves of horror and guilt washing over it. Reminding him . . . that _was_ the question.

How _did _that happen?

How did this woman get into the road? It was an isolated area and they'd just stopped moments before. Plus they'd seen no other cars since they'd turned off the highway.

So _where_ . . . slowly he exhaled trying to get his racing heart back under control again . . . did she come from? Part of him tried to say that it didn't matter . . . that was the part that was traumatized over his apparent killing an innocent. But the rest of him . . . the agent in him . . . knew that where this woman came from mattered very much. Because she was the SEVENTH dead body that they'd seen in a matter of minutes! And clearly all of those bodies . . . regardless of manner or cause of death . . . were connected. So her presence on this road . . . her _death_ on this road . . . was NOT simply a tragic coincidence.

It meant something much greater than his own part in these events.

And as his molasses laden brain finally processed that fact, Hotch started to get a glimmer of a greater truth. This wasn't a case that they were going to let the locals handle. Because figuring out exactly what happened here . . . exactly why this woman was dead and what role he personally had played in that death . . . was vitally important to his future not only at the FBI, but simply as a human being.

Finding that truth was the only way that he'd ever be able to live with himself.

So as his fingers sank further into Emily's flesh, Hotch tried to tune out her quiet weeping as he focused not on the person lying in the road, but in the crime scene that they were hovering over. And as he stared down at the massive head trauma illuminated brightly in the glowing headlights, years of doing this work showed him that there was no way that he had hit that woman while she was standing behind him. That would have been a thud and then a bump.

And he'd only heard a bump.

Which meant that she was already lying _in _the road when the tire crushed her skull.

Okay . . . he felt another jolt of adrenaline hit his body as his eyes snapped back to the rearview mirror . . . so now we're back to the question again. How the hell did she get in the road?

"Prentiss," his fingers tightened even further around her arm, "is there any possibility that woman out there is the same person that you saw in the woods?"

Please say yes.

"No," Emily sniffled . . . and then her head snapped up as she looked over at Hotch in horror, "no, definitely not. The figure I saw was over six feet. It was in shadows but I didn't look away until I heard the thud. I'm sure it was a man, and he was still standing there until after the," she swallowed, "accident."

As that fact began to sink in, Emily's watery eyes shot back out to the body in front of them. She took in the localized injuries and then her gaze drifted back to the totem pole ten feet further down the road. Now that Hotch had focused her mind on what had happened just before . . . the crime and not just the resulting tragedy . . . her brain was whirling. Processing the scene as she would in any other situation.

And the conclusions she was coming to were doing nothing to lessen the horror of the moment. The woman's presence . . . not to mention the stack of freshly butchered _heads_ . . . were clearly both connected.

There was no other conclusion to make.

So the woman . . . most likely another kidnap victim of the head stacker . . . had either been crawling into the road . . . perhaps somehow trying to get their attention . . . or she'd been thrown behind their car as a diversion of some kind. Perhaps a diversion to do exactly what was happening right now.

Keep them from leaving.

"Hotch," she swallowed hard as her fingers tightened around her revolver. "What the hell is going on here?"

"I don't know Prentiss," Hotch's voice faded for a second as he looked out at the woods around them, "and I honestly don't know what to do."

That was a hard admission to make. His training and his instincts were telling him to leave, that it wasn't safe. That they had no idea what was happening here and how many people were involved.

The smart decision was to go. Go and come back with a SWAT team.

But his heart was telling him something else. That he needed to go check that body before they left. Because though the injuries were clearly grievous . . . and mortal . . . there was a faint flicker in the back of his mind that wouldn't leave him alone.

What if she was still breathing?

Yes, it was nearly impossible . . . the top portion of her skull had cracked like a watermelon . . . but what if she was? What if he'd just run down a woman in the street and then didn't stop to check and see if she was even alive? What if he just took off to save himself?

But it's not just yourself . . . a little voice in his head whispered . . . it's Emily too.

Emily.

His head swiveled to find her staring at him with watery eyes . . . he was responsible for her. If he got out of this car to go check that body, he'd be separating them. And if there _was_ somebody in the woods still watching them . . . then what would happen to them then?

But what if she's breathing . . . came back the immediate mocking taunt . . . what if the autopsy report shows that it took an hour for her to slowly drown in her own blood?

What then?

He'd never forgive himself, that's what then. But he also knew, rank or no rank, this wasn't a decision that he could make alone. Both of their lives were in jeopardy.

Emily had a say here too.

So Hotch's hand slid down her wrist. Then he squeezed her fingers, trying to forge a connection that he ordinarily spent his days shying away from.

"Do you think there's any possibility that she's still alive?" He asked softly.

He just wanted some assurance that leaving her there in the road, if not okay . . . none of this was okay . . . was at least moral.

That he wasn't going to rot in hell for making that decision to go.

Emily stared back, seeing the desperation in Hotch's eyes, and knowing the answer he needed to hear.

_Absolutely not. We can't help her . . . she's dead._

But she just couldn't say it. Because honestly, that same question was circling around her brain. With those injuries the woman absolutely _should _be dead . . . but people had survived astonishing injuries. So the thought of leaving without at least checking for a pulse, well . . . Emily gripped Hotch's hand tightly . . . it was making her feel physically ill.

"Probably not," she swallowed, the rest of her words coming out as a whisper, "but I think we should check anyway."

And there it was, the truth that they both knew and neither wanted to accept. They desperately needed to leave and go get back up . . . but they couldn't go.

Not until they were sure.

Part of her brain understood that this was the trap . . . this was why the woman had been placed in the road . . . but it didn't change the situation they now found themselves in.

She saw Hotch staring at her right before his eyes shifted to the misty woods behind her. And as his head tipped down slightly, she knew that they were in agreement.

They were staying.

"As soon as I open my door," Hotch's voice was soft as he looked into the trees where Emily said she'd seen the figure, "you slide into the driver's seat. Keep the motor running, and the doors locked. If anything happens," his eyes snapped back to hers, "anything at all, you leave. You go get help."

"What?" she sputtered in disbelief, "no way."

"That's an order Prentiss," he snapped back.

"I don't care if it's an order Hotch," she hissed in return, "I am NOT leaving you here. Are you crazy? For Christ's sake somebody's chopping up body parts and making them into roadside ART sculptures! If I leave you here," her voice raised to a slightly hysterical pitch, "I'm going to come back to find you in _PIECES!_"

Seeing the hard twitch of Hotch's jaw, and knowing that her anger wasn't cutting through his stubbornness, Emily made an effort to soften her tone as her hand tightened around his.

She needed a different approach.

"Would you leave me?" She whispered.

And as expected, the word came back without hesitation.

"Never."

And then a split second later she could see the wince of that truth on his face. How could he expect her to do something that he himself never could? And they both knew that no matter how bad the situation, he would never leave her behind. Well now he knew . . . she would never leave him either.

Even if this was a suicide run.

"All right then," she cleared her throat to push that unwelcome thought from her mind, "the matter's closed. Let's do this."

Hotch glared for a moment longer, hoping that maybe he could intimidate Prentiss into listening. But at the same time he knew it would do no good. Her point was clear. How could he expect less of her than he did of himself? That just wasn't how they were wired.

So finally he nodded.

"Okay Prentiss," he gave a resigned sigh, "you win," his eyes shifted back to the road, "let's just get it done."

At least two minutes had passed, and if that woman was still alive, those were two minutes that she didn't have to waste. Of course he also wanted to get out of there before anybody came out of the woods, or they lost anymore daylight. It was fairly straight shot back to civilization, but they had close to five miles to go.

And five miles was quite a long distance when you were trying to drive up out a level of Hell.

So with one last look at the woods around them, Hotch slowly released Emily's fingers from his grasp. Though he wouldn't ordinarily have chosen to make such a physical connection with her, it still felt strange letting her go.

As though even that level of separation was a bad idea.

Well . . . his hand moved to the locks as he though drily . . . there were worse ideas on the horizon.

"Hotch."

Hearing the emotion in Emily's tone, his head immediately snapped back.

"Please come right back," she pleaded, "don't try to read the scene or look for evidence or anything that I know so badly you want to do. And I know it because I want to do it too. But I also know that I saw somebody in those woods, I know that as well as I can see you right now. We aren't alone out here. So please remember that when you open the door."

Though what she said was true, she would never leave him, she was also terrified of what would happen if somebody did come out of the woods. Or perhaps if a bullet came out of the woods. That was her biggest concern . . . him getting shot and her trying to collect him before they both ended up as part of the organic art sculptures. And she could see from the emotions shifting on his face, that Hotch was picturing that scenario too.

That was the one where he hoped she would leave him and save herself.

Then he tipped his head and nodded.

"Thirty seconds," he slid the safety off his gun, "count it. If I'm not back in the car hit the horn."

Under other circumstances the horn wouldn't be his first choice. But whoever else was out here already was aware of their presence. Which of course made his choice to step out this vehicle all the more idiotic.

But . . . he shoved the door open and the rain splattered onto his face . . . that didn't mean he wasn't doing it!

"Lock it!" He yelled just as the door slammed shut again. The last thing he saw before he turned was Emily was sliding behind the wheel. Then he took off at a run towards the body.

The wind was picking up again . . . starting to gust . . . and the rain was coming down in cold steady rivulets that soaked his skin within seconds. Seconds that he was counting down in his head just as he knew Prentiss was back in the car.

It took six for him to reach the body. Then he stopped doing a quick . . . somewhat useless most likely, check of the area . . . it was a half assed effort not to get his head taken off . . . before he crouched down, wincing slightly in sympathy as he pushed the bloody, sopping wet hair off the woman's throat. Then he put his fingers to the pale skin.

Nothing . . . he wasn't sure if he was relieved or saddened even further by that knowledge. Either way though . . . he started to stand up . . . he didn't regret the trip.

They had to know for sure.

He was just about to turn and run back to the car . . . _now _they could go . . . when his need to see her face . . . to know who it was that he'd killed . . . became too much of an urge to ignore.

It would just take a second, he told himself as he stooped back down . . . that's all.

So he put his hand on her shoulder, and tried to turn the body over so he could see the face. But then his stomach flipped as he realized that the head wasn't moving.

It was stuck to the ground.

It took all of his self control not to throw up . . . he'd seen worse things in his career, but none he was so personally responsible for. But after another moment . . . ten more seconds . . . he got his stomach under control. Then he put his hand directly on her jaw, slowly lifting the sticky mess from the granite before he turned the misshapen head towards him. His own jaw grinding, he put his gun on the ground for a second so he could push back the dirty blonde hair covering her features.

His eyes shot open as his heart started to race.

"Oh Jesus Christ," he sputtered in horror, "what the hell is this?"

Her mouth and her eyes were both sewn shut. Though he could see obvious bruising on her face that was unlikely to have been caused by the accident. And as his gaze dropped down, traveling further over her frail body he saw additional evidence of torture.

Burns and bruising and still healing broken bones.

The three Bs that he saw over and over again on their victims. Though as his eyes snapped back to her face he felt a wave of nausea wash over him as he realized how she'd ended up behind the car.

She couldn't see.

Tears pricked his eyes as he stared down as the ruins of this stranger's face . . . she couldn't see and somebody had dropped her into the road. She had no chance of getting out of the way.

Just as that wave of grief was about to wash over him again, Hotch heard Emily honk the horn. Not once, but she was holding it down and then yelling out the window.

"HOTCH!"

His head snapped up to see her pointing frantically towards the woods again.

He leapt up, grabbing his gun off the ground as he came to his feet. Rage was filling him as he pointed his weapon towards the figure he could see moving back in the trees.

"FBI!" He roared as his thumb slid over the safety, "show your face!"

But he didn't.

The figure remained motionless . . . taunting him . . . from behind a large mossy tree, ten feet back from the road. The figure was too obscured for Hotch to even consider taking a shot . . . he couldn't waste the ammo. All he could really see at the moment was a shoulder, and God knows he couldn't go running in there after him.

It would be suicide.

Still though . . . for a second he was tempted. He was just that pissed that he almost didn't care.

Then Emily hit the horn again and he remembered there were other considerations here beyond his own life.

He took off at a run back to the car.

Seeing Hotch . . . finally . . . sprinting back, Emily slowly let out a ragged breath as she hit the locks to open the door. A split second later Hotch bounded in, dripping wet.

"GO, GO!" He yelled as he dropped into the seat, his hand slamming down on the dash.

Emily didn't need to be told twice . . . she was already peeling out backwards.

"What did you see?" She asked breathlessly as the trees started to fly passed in reverse.

Whatever it was had held his attention long past the point where she'd thought he'd be running back.

He'd been gone almost a minute.

"She'd been tortured," Hotch said softly as he stared out the front window watching the scene fade into the falling rain, "eyes and lips sewn shut. Burns on her body and clear bruising on the exposed flesh. The bruising I'm sure, that had nothing to do with the accident."

What in the name of HELL was going on out here?

"Tortured with her eyes and mouth sewn shut," Emily winced as she rapidly changed gears, "that's a new one for me."

But dear Christ, what a horrendous way to die. Unable to see what was coming, or scream while it was happening.

Just the absolute horror of being stuck with the suffering all in your head.

And as she smoothly executed the J-Turn, flipping their car around so she could drive straight, Emily asked the other question on her mind.

"Is there a possibility that she was already dead when she was thrown into the street?"

Hotch closed his eyes for a second.

"I hope so," he breathed, "but I don't know. She could have been crawling, looking for help. And then I came along and . . ."

His voice cut out . . . but then Emily's came right back.

"We came along," she said huskily, "what happened was as much my fault as yours. But that doesn't matter right now," she cleared her throat, "we got where we did and that's what happened when we arrived. And really," she reluctantly slowed the car as hail began to fall from the sky again, "if anybody was going to stumble onto a scene like that, better us than civilians, right? Whoever that was in the woods would have scooped up civilians in seconds, but he could see you were armed and unafraid. And that's probably the only thing that kept him off of you. So really," she nodded faintly to herself, "as awful as that woman's death was, if somebody else had driven down here, the body count would have already been higher."

The words were said with such confidence that to Hotch's surprise . . . they actually did make him feel a little better. Not a lot . . . but enough to push that oppressive guilt down one more time. Because Emily's points were valid ones . . . he cringed slightly as a particularly large chunk of ice slammed into the windshield . . . better they stumbled across this horror show than anyone else.

Now they just needed to get out of there in one piece.

The winds were flipping the leaves straight back as the rain and ice pellets pounding down on the roof. But even with the worsening storm conditions, they were moving along at a decent clip. Emily was hovering between 35 and 40 mph. Certainly not ideal for a "life or death escape," but really the safest they could do with the road covered in puddles of water and chunks of ice.

The last thing they need was a spin out. Or . . . or . . . something caught Hotch's attention.

A flash of lightning.

And then his eyes widened in horror as the tree began to fall.

"TREE! ELEVEN O'CLOCK!" He yelled, already bracing himself for the ride he knew was coming next.

It wasn't going to be pretty.

Emily's heart was in her throat as she slammed on the brakes, simultaneously breaking a hard right to avoid the tree crashing down just in front of them. There was no way for her to retain control of the car as they spun around and around on the slick surface, finally coming to a hard stop as the rear left bumper made contact with the tree trunk.

That's when Emily's head made contact with the window.

"OW!" She cried out as her hand came up to grab her temple.

FUCK!

"Prentiss!" Hotch was in a near panic as he scrambled out of his seat belt and across the seat. "Are you all right! Is it bleeding?"

"I don't," Emily blinked twice to clear her vision, "I don't know. It feels a little sticky."

Before she could pull her hand down to check for blood, Hotch was gently pushing it away. Then she felt his warm fingers on her face, turning her head so he could see for himself.

"It's just a scratch," he whispered as his fingers moved over her temple, "but there's a bump forming." He leaned back slightly to catch her eyes, looking for dilation.

They looked clear.

"How do you feel?"

"Like I just cracked my head against a window," Emily snapped back in pain. But then . . . realizing that wasn't going to do much for his worry quotient . . . she added on a less bitter note.

"I'm not going to pass out though," she took a slow breath as she closed her eyes. "I'm okay." They popped open again to find Hotch staring intently, "really, I think it's just going to be a headache."

"You're sure," he asked as his both his gaze and his fingers moved to touch her face again, "because we're not in a good place right now Prentiss. And if you're really hurt," his eyes snapped back to hers, "I need to know."

"Really Hotch," Emily's tone softened as she reached over and patted his arm, "I don't think it's serious. But I promise I'll say something if I start to feel really dizzy or nauseous. Okay?"

Granted, she was feeling slightly dizzy and nauseous already. But given all the spinning and the head cracking she was chalking that up as normal symptoms that would pass soon enough.

Hotch stared for a moment longer. Then his chin tipped slightly.

"Okay."

She looked all right . . . well, in pain, but tolerable pain. And the bottom line was . . . his attention moved to the world outside the windows . . . they couldn't stay where they were. They'd not even cleared two miles from the bodies they'd found. And now they had this new obstacle to deal with.

A God damn tree.

Though . . . his eyes moved back and over the dashboard to see the lights were clearly still lit . . . things could have been much worse.

"Good driving," he murmured as he looked out to the tree nearly flush against the side of the car.

All that had hit was the bumper. Enough to jerk Emily's head against the window, but overall they'd escaped any real injuries . . . and they hadn't flipped . . . which was half luck and half solid defensive driving. Also . . . he leaned over her to check the gauges . . . it appeared that the car was still working all right too.

It was running anyway . . . he sat back with a grunt . . . and that was something.

"Thanks," Emily murmured back before turning to take in the whipping wind and rain.

"It's not safe out there."

"No," Hotch said softly.

"But there's a tree we need to move."

"Yes."

"So we have to go outside."

"Yes."

"Right."

The last word came out on a heavy sigh. Though the tone of their entire exchange was rhetorical . . . they both knew what needed to be done . . . still Emily had needed for him to say it out loud. Because the last thing she wanted to do was leave the car. It was safe.

Relatively so anyway.

Not only was it shelter from the storm . . . a direct hit from a chunk of falling ice would do more damage to her skull than the window had . . . but it was also a movable steel box with two armed FBI agents inside. And as far as middle of nowhere safe zones when there was clearly a homicidal psychopath on the loose, this was pretty much as good as it got. But now they had to go outside.

Out in the open.

Crap.

Her eyes shifted across the seat to see Hotch chewing his lip as he stared out the window.

"What's the plan?" She asked softly and he pointed, his jaw twisting slightly before he spoke.

"See there," he leaned a bit closer so she'd know what he was looking at, "I think that's our best bet. It's hard to tell from this angle, but from here it looks like there's a small gap where the road's still clear, so we'd just need to push the tree up maybe ten feet to have enough clearance to go around."

It was definitely more difficult making plans when they were so close to the obstacle in play. Stepping back a bit would give them a better perspective on their options, but Hotch really didn't want to be outside for any longer than they needed to be. Whatever storm cells were rolling across the region right now . . . and given the gusts shaking the car they were clearly in what would be considered a "red patch" on the meteorological scale . . . they were clearly in that "seek shelter immediately" patch. So going outside was definitely a level of stupid that he'd not normally endorse.

But they had no choice.

Under better circumstances . . . under _ordinary_ circumstances . . . they'd just wait it out in the car until the storm let up. But these were NOT ordinary circumstances, these were extremely fucked up, seven dead bodies behind them, circumstances. And they needed to get back to civilization ASAP before whomever it was down the road thought to hop in their truck . . . he was clearly profiling a pickup truck . . . and take a drive. Because really . . . a little chill started to creep down Hotch's back that had nothing to do with his wet clothes . . . who was to say that he wouldn't be traveling in _this_ direction and not that direction.

Hotch had simply been assuming this was the safest direction because it was the one they came from.

But he didn't know where the UNSUB had come from.

"Come on Prentiss," he said crisply as he picked up his pistol from where he'd dropped it on the seat, "let's do this."

"Right," she muttered as she unclicked her seat belt, "onwards and upwards sir."

Just as Emily moved to unlock the doors, Hotch suddenly got another bad feeling and grabbed her arm.

"So we're clear," he said slowly, "no more than a four foot gap between us. Watch for debris flying, and you cover me while I handle the tree."

Her eyebrow climbed up a half an inch.

"Not to impugn your manhood Hotch, but do you really think you can move that all by yourself?" Her gaze shifted out to the leaves and branches pressed against her window, "it's not exactly a sapling."

Though she saw his point about maintaining cover . . . turning their backs on whoever had built the human totem pole was obviously a suicidal approach to this endeavor . . . but still, two pushing the tree would take half the amount of time.

And time was the issue here.

"No," he followed her gaze through the water streaming down the glass, "not a sapling, but it's not exactly a redwood either. And just the fact that it did fall so easily makes me think it's probably at least a bit rotted. That should make it lighter."

Really, all he had to do was push the damn thing, not lift it. And if he could dead lift over two hundred pounds then he should be able to push one partially rotted oak tree out of the road.

He hoped.

Emily was already nodding before Hotch finished talking.

"Okay," she started to slide across the seat, "if you're sure."

The matter now settled, Hotch put his hand on the door handle, bracing himself for what was about to hit him in the face.

Wind, rain . . . he winced slightly as the freezing droplets pelted his skin . . . and little ice pellets. Things were worse even than he'd gotten out at the crime scene.

And that was less than five minutes ago.

After Hotch slipped back out into the rain . . . he hadn't dried more than his hands since his last trip outside . . . he moved a few feet away from the car and squinted, trying to see if there were any vehicles rolling up from where they'd from come from.

He scowled . . . visibility was shit though. The fact that it was barely five pm meant nothing with this weather. He couldn't see more than fifteen feet in any direction.

And that was a serious problem.

Hearing the door slam shut, he whipped back around to see Emily shivering in the soaking wet rain. He felt another stab of guilt and anger . . . again, he'd made a simple transportation decision and now she was in mortal danger because of it.

But . . . he shook his head slightly . . . he couldn't think about that right now. Now he needed to move the God damn tree. So he jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he raised his voice slightly so she could hear him over the storm.

"Can't see a damn thing! Just do your best!" Then Hotch impulsively patted Emily's shoulder as he jogged around her, "I'll be as fast as I can!"

"Right," Emily's teeth were chattering as she squinted in the rain, "you do that. I'll be here."

God . . . she prayed as she heard the branches immediately began to scrape against concrete . . . please let him be fast. With this degree of visibility she couldn't have hit . . . or even SEEN . . . the broad side of a barn if it was fifty feet away. Really, until this rain let up, she wasn't going to have a chance in hell of seeing anything or anyone until they were right on top of them.

Though . . . she tried a few of the Susie Sunshine thoughts to the creeping panic that was not all productive . . . in the alternative, that meant that whoever the hell was out there with them couldn't see jack shit right now either. So even though they were sitting ducks, he most likely didn't know that.

Yet.

Right . . . her gaze and her gun shifted to take in the mostly obscured woods around them . . . yet.

Hearing a grunt and a curse from behind her, Emily jumped slightly. Then she shot Hotch a quick worried glance.

"Are you all right?" She yelled back over her shoulder.

Not hearing an immediate response . . . and feeling a corresponding bolt of panic because of that . . . after another quick check of their surroundings, she hurriedly backed up towards where she'd just seen him pushing.

"Hotch?" She reached out blindly behind her as the panic began to pepper her words, "answer me! Did you hurt yourself?"

Then Emily let out a sigh of relief as she felt Hotch's wet, sap covered fingers cover her wrist.

"Sorry, I'm okay." He paused, "it's not too bad."

"What's not too bad?" She turned to look at him as the panic started rolling back in, "what's wrong?"

And then her eyes widened when she saw his face.

"Oh. Crap."

Momentarily forgetting that she was supposed to be covering their flank, she felt that panic surge as she reached out to touch his cheek.

"How bad is it? Can you see?"

He'd taken a branch to the eye. Even with the rain squint they were both doing, she could see his left one was slightly swollen. There was also a thin trickle of watery blood running down his face.

Great . . . she thought bitterly . . . they now had matching wounds.

"Yeah," he nodded impatiently as her hand fell from his face, "I can see. It caught the bone on the corner of the socket," he tried to shake off her concern as his tone hardened. "I'm all right."

It was his own damn fault. Haste makes waste his mother always said. And that was never more true than at this particular moment. He'd been in such a hurry to get them moving again that he hadn't braced his weight properly as he'd leaned down to push. So as the tree had begun to move, he'd been thrown off kilter and slipped on the wet pavement.

In the process he'd narrowly missed skewering his eye right in the socket.

On the good news front though . . . his rapidly blinking gaze dropped down to his feet . . . he had gotten the tree to move. Okay, it had moved a foot . . . he leaned down to start pushing again . . . but that was something.

Feeling Emily's eyes still on him he grunted out. "Watch the road Prentiss."

Emily jumped as she spun around.

"Right," her wet fingers clenched more tightly around her Sig, "got it."

God . . . she shook her head slightly to clear the cobwebs settling over it . . . that was stupid. Letting herself get distracted like that wasn't normal for her. It was just that little jolt of panic when she thought maybe he'd taken out his eye that had thrown her off.

Yeah it was definitely that . . . she told herself . . . and not this buzzing in her head from where she'd cracked her skull.

That was NOT the problem!

Okay . . . she took a breath . . . calm down Em. And realizing that she was maybe protesting a bit too much . . . especially given it was just in her own mind . . . Emily finally acknowledged that the head was becoming a bit of an unexpected distraction.

And Hotch needed to know that.

"Sir," she tipped her head slightly to throw her voice over her shoulder, "just FYI, that head wound, _my_ head wound," she clarified drily, "that might be a bit more of a problem than I thought it was."

"How bad of a problem?" Hotch groaned back as he kept shoving the tree, "give me a number."

"Like a four," she swallowed as the world started to spin a bit, "okay maybe a six."

A six . . . Hotch cursed quietly under his breath as the tree scraped incrementally across the pavement . . . that's not good. That's,_ 'she needs to see a doctor ASAP,'_ not good.

"Hang on Prentiss," he groaned, "just a few more feet, we'll have enough clearance and I can get you to the hospital."

Emily was about to argue that she didn't need to go to the damn hospital . . . but then she remembered the sickening crack as her head made contact with the glass.

Okay yeah, the hospital trip might not be totally out of order.

"Roger that," she muttered softly as she shielded her eyes from the rain.

Feeling an increased sense of urgency . . . which was saying something given that he was already operating under battle conditions . . . Hotch took a full breath as he gave the tree one more hard shove to get it the last few feet.

Except it didn't move.

Not an inch.

As he jumped up and stepped back, he realized why . . . the car. He'd now angled the tree in such a way that it was pressing fully against the right front bumper.

Okay well . . . he took another hurried step back, eyeballing the clearance on the side now.

Maybe five feet.

It wasn't perfect . . . with the growth on the side of the road at least one of the mirrors would probably get ripped off . . . but it would have to do. Because . . . he slipped his gun out of his holster as he turned and grabbed Emily's arm . . . he wasn't about to stand around all day long lining these things up just right.

As they say . . . he started tugged her back towards the rental . . . close enough for government work.

Feeling a slight drag in Emily's steps, Hotch shot a quick worried glance down to the woman at his side.

"How you doing Prentiss?" He asked breathlessly as they sloshed through the puddles.

"Um," Emily blinked to stay focused and push down her growing nausea, "well, I think . . ."

And then she threw up all over the pavement.

Hotch stopped short . . . SHIT!

"Prentiss!" Her name came out with a slight touch of hysteria, "are you all right?"

But seeing her still bent over holding her stomach, he realized that was pretty much a rhetorical question.

No . . . his hand slipped off of her shoulder as his arm encircled her waist instead . . . she was clearly not all right. Not at all.

"Can you stand up?" He asked as he leaned down to her level.

"Um," Emily wiped her hand across her mouth as she slowly inched herself back to an upright position, "yeah, yeah." She leaned slightly into his side, "actually I feel a bit better now."

"Really?" He asked incredulously as her head suddenly flopped onto his shoulder, "because you don't seem better."

She seemed like she was on the verge of passing out.

"No, I'm," she swallowed hard as he started pulling her forward, "good. Fine. Right as . . . as . . . well whatever this stuff is falling out of the sky."

"It's called rain Prentiss," Hotch murmured back worriedly, "it's rain."

"Right," she said softly, "rain, that's it."

Then he felt her go limp against his side . . . a split second later her weapon clattered to the ground.

And to his horror, Hotch realized that she'd passed out.

Shit! Shit! SHIT!

"Oh Prentiss," he whispered as he shifted his grip, "you do have some unfortunate timing." Then he quickly tucked his own weapon into his holster so he could reach down and grab hers from the puddle it had splashed into.

After he'd tucked that gun into his waistband, he quickly eyeballed the distance to the car and then calculated the likelihood of somebody popping up out of nowhere in the twenty seconds it would take him to get them to the door.

Low.

The chances were low. And the faster he moved . . . he shifted Emily around so he could hoist her into his arms . . . the lower that chance got.

So he scooped the still unconscious Emily up against his chest and took off at a run.

He'd gone three feet before he felt something slam into his calf.

A bullet . . . he gasped in agony . . . Prentiss' friend from the woods had found them. And knowing that if he stopped they were dead, Hotch bit down cleanly through his lower lip as a surge of pain and adrenaline shot through his system.

FUCK!

His chest was pounding with physical pain and mortal terror . . . he was in fight or flight . . . and flight was the only option. With an injured Emily cradled to his chest, he was clearly in no position at all to fight.

So he tried to keep moving.

He limped along three more feet before another bullet zipped just in front of them.

It took out the back window of the car.

Then a third flew by his head . . . close enough to make his ear ring.

Realizing then . . . too late . . . that there was no way he could outrun any gunfire . . . not in his condition, Hotch dropped to his knees, tucking Emily's body as closely to his as he could as his arms slipped fully around her slender frame.

Though he had two handguns on him, he made no move to reach them. So far all of these shots . . . even the calf . . . had clearly just been warnings. But he was truly terrified that if he made a move to grab one of the guns, that this guy would take his head off.

Or worse . . . he tucked Emily under his chin . . . Emily's.

As a figure started to take shape just ahead of him in the rain . . . the shooter was walking closer . . . Hotch tried his last hand.

The badge.

"We're FBI agents!" he hissed in fury as the storm raged around them, "if you kill us, then you're going to have the full weight of the federal government chasing you down!"

"Like I give a fuck," came back the raspy response, "you people have no authority out here."

Hotch couldn't see a face . . . just a hunting rifle slung across dark clothing and shadowy features covered by the brim of baseball cap. Then the shooter tipped his head back to call over his shoulder.

"Do they Thomas?"

That's when Hotch was sure that the last bit of color drained from his face.

Thomas.

He was talking to someone else.

There were two of them.

Hotch's eyes were wild with panic and pain as they fell down to see Emily clutched against his chest.

Her eyes were still shut.

So they had two UNSUBs, she was unconscious and he had a bullet in his leg. His head snapped back up as he saw a second figure emerge from the storm.

They were seriously fucked.

* * *

_A/N 2: Storms are suck places to try and make a quick getaway. Something's going to trip you up. _

_But yes I know, dear God, what MORE could possibly go wrong! But it's not that I'm randomly throwing everything and the kitchen sink at them in this story. There won't be a herd of wild T-Rexes charging out of the forest or anything, it's just more the LIKELY cause and effect of a situation like this (storms and serial killers colliding) and things completely unraveling as each decision they make (the old turn left turn right dilemma) that throws them further and further off their center. You spin out on a slippery road, somebody's likely to bump their head, you try and singlehandedly shove an oak tree out of your way, you're probably going to take a branch to the eye. And these are obviously not helpful turns of events when you're trying to run away very quickly._

_Plus, you know trees crashing is very common in any storm, especially in a forest area, so that was a likely occurrence. Two weeks ago by brother-in-law was on driving in a wooded area during a thunderstorm, the winds suddenly shifted, one tree fell like ten feet ahead of his jeep, one like two feet behind. The back one clipped the bumper. He was totally fine, but temporarily trapped. Fortunately though, he did happen to get stuck in that section of road with a sheriff's deputy so he got out of their pretty fast. So yeah, fun real life story sharing, huh? :)_

_And I'll have you people know, this bad boy comes in at almost 7000 words. That's by no means a record for me, but I had two DISTINCT locations where I could have cut this chapter, but I said to myself 'no, keep going! You can do it!' Because you see, I'm trying not to screw you guys :) I don't want this one to be epically long so you have to wait for the ending, so I'm really trying to cram as much into each posting that I can. The scenes are flowing quite well in my head right now so I'm going to keep pushing it as much as I can. _


	6. Desperate Times, Desperate Measures

**Author's Note**: Just an upfront reminder here for old readers and new, I don't write "Emily Gets Raped" stories. To each his own, but that's not my thing. So as we move forward in the tale, and you're wondering what's going to happen, if that worrying little thought starts worming its way into your brain you can tell it to worm itself back out. We've all had them, you get a couple chapters into something and then you get that feeling and then its the 'eh, I sorta liked this but now I don't know if I like where this is going' moment. Or even better, you don't even get the opportunity to get the bad feeling! Somebody just throws some horrible "live" violation into his/her story with absolutely no warning anywhere and you're having a "dear God my eyes!" moment. And fellow writers please don't do that to anyone, it's so not cool.

So to recap, rest assured there will be no sexual assaults of Emily (or Hotch for that matter, as long as we're talking) anywhere in this story. Not to say that you'll be pleased with the rest of their ordeal here, this is not a warm cuddly tale, but if the sexual abuse is your hot button, then you can safely read ahead.

Now that you're prepped, I'll tell you this picks up shortly after we left Hotch. We're opening with Emily.

* * *

**Desperate Times, Desperate Measures**

Emily's brain started to swim up out of the darkness. There was a cold rain beating down on her face, her clothes were soaked to her skin and she could feel chills running through her body.

Slowly her wet lashes began to flutter.

That's when she realized that her face was pressed against something solid. The something was familiar . . . yet not. Not familiar in this intimate a way.

Hotch.

The name . . . the face . . . suddenly appeared out of the fog in her brain. And that was because she heard his voice . . . he was angry . . . yelling at someone. The words were somewhat garbled to her . . . part of her knew that she knew she was still out of it and there was a disconnect . . . but she could tell one thing for sure.

He was in a fury.

The implications of that . . . of her normally unflappable boss losing it in that way . . . suddenly sent a jolt of fear and terror through Emily's already shaking body. Ordinarily his temper ran cold, cold and lethal. But right now he was clearly running hot. A boil about to spill over.

Slowly her eyes started to open, her foggy brain continuing to clear.

Why was he so upset?

And why exactly . . . she blinked, feeling his strong arms wrapped around her as she focused in on his white dress shirt pressed against her face . . . was he holding her so protectively this way?

Like he was a mother with a cub.

Then she started to focus in on the words he was saying . . . yelling at him not to touch her. Then she felt him shuffle slightly backwards and she realized what was happening. A flood of horror and panic washed over her, the adrenaline clearing the remaining cobwebs from her mind.

_She_ was the HER in question! And somebody was trying to take her from Hotch.

That's why he was screaming.

OH SHIT!

Suddenly everything he was saying . . . and why he was cradling her to his body in the raging storm . . . all became clear. She'd passed out and then the UNSUB had found them.

Oh God . . . tears began to prick her eyes . . . they'd been on the verge of leaving. They were going to the car and then everything went dark. So it was her fault that they'd been caught. Hotch would have been distracted with her condition. Otherwise there's no way that this guy could have gotten the jump on them like this.

No sooner had that thought come to her, then she felt Hotch shift his grip, holding her tighter still. And that's when she heard a sound that chilled her bones.

A third man's voice.

There were two UNSUBS.

Feeling an additional jolt of terror at that realization . . . they'd lost whatever two on one advantage they might have had . . . Emily's fingers clenched into Hotch's sopping wet shirt, digging into his flesh. His whole body tensed up . . . now he knew that she was awake. But given the (subtle) full body squeeze he gave her in return, she was quite sure that he didn't want the others to know that too.

Right . . . she slowly exhaled against his throat . . . the element of surprise.

It was all they had left.

So though it went against every survival instinct she had, Emily let her eyes fall shut again. Right now her life was completely in Hotch's hands. They were good hands though . . . she felt an ache in her chest as more threats were exchanged while Hotch slowly climbed to his feet . . . the best. If she had to be dragged off to hell with anyone . . . and that's most definitely where they were going now . . . Morgan and Hotch would definitely be her first picks. They were immortals.

Superheroes.

Though as Superman slowly started to carry her through the freezing rain to God knows where the UNSUB was directing him, Emily felt a definite drag in his step and a tightness in his breathing. And she knew then that he was hurt.

Something had happened to him while she was unconscious.

For a moment she tried to call up some memory of what it could have been . . . maybe it was when she was still half out of it . . . but there was nothing there. Whatever it was had to have occurred when she was out cold completely. Okay then . . . she heard a yell and Hotch stopped moving . . . that meant he wasn't operating at one hundred percent. That was putting him at mere mortal levels.

Again . . . her eyes started to sting . . . shit.

But that's okay though . . . her little cheerleader voice tried to push off the encroaching panic . . . because even a slightly diminished Hotch was more competent than ninety-nine percent of the people on the planet. Plus she knew even at that moment that he was profiling their abductors, figuring out their team dynamic . . . looking for the weaknesses to exploit. And that was all good stuff.

That was Hotch in his prime.

So for a second Emily started to feel slightly better . . . that he'd figure out an exit sooner than later . . . but then she heard that third voice again. And this time his icy words sent her stomach somersaulting, almost to the point that she wanted to throw up. Again.

"Hand the bitch over."

And for a horrific moment she felt Hotch's grip on her start to slip . . . her heart jumped to her throat as she felt herself being pulled away from him.

NO! NO! **NO!** PLEASE GOD NO!

But then he yanked hard, pulling her back and stumbling as he fell to one knee. By the hiss and sharp sudden intake of breath, Emily was sure that he'd jostled whatever his injury was.

A second later there was a loud thwack and she heard Hotch groan . . . he'd been hit.

Hard.

Hotch could take a punch like nobody's business, but that one had clearly hurt. Which made her think it probably wasn't a punch . . . more likely the butt of a handgun.

One of theirs perhaps.

God knows what had happened to her Sig after she passed out. Even if Hotch had grabbed it, they would have taken it from him by now.

And when she felt him twist his body slightly and gag . . . she knew he was spitting out blood. Maybe a tooth. Her gut twisted in sympathy and gratitude . . . he took that blow to protect her. And she so badly wanted to open her eyes and make sure that he was okay.

But she didn't.

If anything she screwed them even more tightly closed as she tried to stay limp in his arms. If they were looking to pull her away from him now when she was still . . . apparently . . . a dead weight, one that they'd need to carry, then God help her if they discovered she was awake. Then there would be no reason at all for them to allow Hotch to keep her with him. And Emily was quite sure that if she lost her grip on him then she was going to go mad.

Seriously.

She was scared shitless, countless photos from their case files flying through her brain. All the before pictures.

And then all the afters.

Oh God . . . her chest started to tighten in grief . . . she didn't want to be an after. She couldn't die like those women in their files.

Violated, mutilated and screaming.

No . . . she pushed down the flood of emotions those images were conjuring up . . . they'd get through this, they just had to stick together. And fortunately . . . she felt Hotch begin moving again . . . Hotch was continuing to get his way on this one little point of them staying together.

For now anyway.

And for now was really all she could focus on at the moment. She needed to stay focused on what was going on around them. If an opportunity suddenly presented itself for an attempt at escape . . . and transit was the best bet for that because you never wanted to be moved to the second location . . . then she needed to be ready.

Ready for Hotch's signal.

She was paying attention to every inflection in his tone, every shift of his arms around her. If they got to the moment to run, she needed to be ready.

/*/*/*/

Feeling the blood trickling down his throat from his cut lip, Hotch pushed down the resulting nausea as he continued to trudge through the puddles and rain to the old truck still another ten feet away.

As hard as it was to carry Emily with a bullet wound in his leg, he had to keep going. Had to keep her with him. Because if they realized that she was awake now then they'd definitely try again to take her away from him.

And that just could not happen.

The second man, Thomas . . . he was the only one so far with a name . . . Hotch had already pegged him as a sexual sadist. And so as long as Hotch had a breath in his body, he wasn't letting that man take Prentiss from him.

He'd die first.

Not that that he'd be of much use to Emily then. But knowing what she knew all too well about what would be coming after she was alone with that man, Hotch was sure that she'd choose death by her own hand before she allowed herself to suffer those horrors.

No matter what happened next, hard choices were coming . . . for both of them. But Hotch just had to make sure . . . he stumbled slightly over a rock in the road . . . that it didn't come to that choice. Fortunately the other thing he'd discerned in the last five minutes of detection, was that Thomas wasn't the alpha in this pairing, which meant that he didn't have ultimate say over what was done with either of them. The other man was calling the shots.

And that was about all they had going for them then.

Yeah . . . he huffed bitterly to himself . . . maybe if they were lucky UNSUB Alpha would have them dismembered and stacked into a roadside sculpture before Thomas had a chance to sexually violate Prentiss with a carving knife.

Realizing that chain of events was all too plausible . . . and was doing nothing for his 'we're going to get out of this' mantra playing in his head . . . Hotch pushed those thoughts aside as he dragged himself up to the back of the old bronco.

It was red, both in paint color and rust stains. And Hotch could see the back windows . . . too small to climb out of . . . had been painted over opaque with a similarly tinted crimson paint.

Dear God . . . he felt his stomach shift . . . he hoped it was just paint and not blood. Either way, it was clearly intended to keep people from seeing in the back. And the big shiny lock and chain dangling in front of him was clearly intended to keep people from getting into the back.

Or . . . the chain was quickly unlocked by Thomas . . . getting OUT of the back. Because that's clearly where they were headed now. And once that chain was back into place, they were going to be trapped in there until they arrived wherever they were going.

FUCK!

For a moment as he stood there utterly helpless watching their rolling prison be prepared for them, Hotch felt a fresh wave of fury and rage wash over him. And in that moment he knew without a doubt, the second the opportunity presented itself . . . he would kill both of these men without hesitation. They had no idea who they had picked up today, the things he had seen . . . the things he had done.

The men who had raised him.

They didn't know that Aaron Hotchner was just as dangerous as they were.

More so perhaps . . . he tucked Emily closer to his chest as a shove of a rifle butt forced him to move towards the cavernous truck bed . . . because it wasn't just his own life in danger. He had Prentiss to worry about.

Prentiss and all the things that these men would do to her.

And as he slowly shifted his throbbing leg up onto the truck, Hotch knew that if anything happened to her . . . if they took her . . . if he LOST her to them, that whatever happened next wouldn't be something that he could control.

But that was another choice he couldn't let present itself. He just couldn't let it get to that point. Because if it did . . . even if he survived . . . he wasn't sure how he'd ever go back to his life before.

His wife and his son and his job with a desk and staff meetings and budget reports.

That would be a world beyond him.

So as he stifled a scream and dragged them both up along the sticky metal floor, Hotch made a promise to himself.

He'd find a way out.

Though the pain was excruciating . . . and the mocking taunts from Thomas weren't helping his control . . . Hotch somehow managed to move them up to the corner of the truck. For the first time he shifted Emily to his side, keeping her close, but letting her body rest against him rather than on him.

He needed to check his leg.

Still though he waited, watching with a clenched jaw as Thomas shot Emily another nauseating grin. A grin that made Hotch's stomach turn when it was followed by a flicking of his tongue and a lick of his lips. That was one person that Hotch knew he needed to remove from the planet.

His existence served no purpose.

But he put that thought aside for a moment as the door slammed shut. And then he heard the chain rattling against the metal.

They were locked in.

Though that was a terrifying thought, at least they were alone and out of immediate harm's way. But it wasn't until he heard the voices moving away from the back and around to the cab, that Hotch finally let out his clenched breath. Then he tipped his head down slightly to the left.

"We're alone," he murmured, "but I don't know how much they can hear back here so we need to stay quiet and you still shouldn't move around a lot. We don't want them to know you're awake. You can open your eyes though."

The paint on the windows allowed a bit of the outer grey light inside. Not a lot, but enough to a least see things in shadow. Red tinted shadow.

But it was better than complete darkness. And he took that moment of light to check his watch. They'd need to know how long they were in the truck.

It was the only way they'd find their way back out again.

"I'm guessing that sound I heard was us being locked in?" Emily whispered back, trying to keep her voice even as the truck engine began to rumble.

This was just so very bad. They were being moved to a second location.

Everybody dies at the second location.

"Yeah," Hotch hissed as he slowly began to roll up his pant leg, "there's a pad lock on the door. And also," he bit his lip as his eyes shifted around the shadowy space, "you should know that the bed of the truck is covered in dried blood."

In the shadows it wasn't so obvious . . . again, everything looked like a shade of puce . . . but he'd seen it much more clearly as he was moving them up to the corner. The floor was crimson. And he knew that wasn't paint or rust.

It was all blood.

"Yeah," Emily swallowed as she shifted slightly so she could turn her head, trying to see what he saw, "I can smell it. How fresh is it?"

By her olfactory experiences at the BAU, very.

"Varies," his gaze shifted around for a second before it dropped back to the matter of his wounded leg, "some of it was clearly still tacky, but some of it looks oooold."

The end of Hotch's sentence was cut off by a groan of pain as he pulled the material away from the edges of the bullet wound. Then as he stared down at the tattered flesh he added softly, mostly to himself.

"They've been doing this a long time."

So why hadn't they known about it? Why hadn't this section of the country been on their radar?

_Because there are so many of them,_ a little voice said. And the little voice was right. There were simply too many monsters to hunt. Too many shadows for them to hide in. They just couldn't see all of them.

And because of that, now the monsters were hunting them.

"How bad is it?"

Even as she asked about his welfare, Hotch could hear the undercurrent of fear and panic Emily was trying so hard to hide from him. And as a result he felt another wave of guilt and pain wash over him.

The reminder that her presence there was all his fault.

So though he was wounded, had lost his guns . . . the first thing they had him throw down . . . and essentially had no solid plan at all to save them beyond simply staying alive long enough to escape, or dying by their own hand before Emily was gruesomely violated . . . an either/or he really didn't want to have to decide on anytime soon . . . Hotch put on his poker face.

"Not too bad," he tipped his head down to the leg wound, "it bled a fair amount but it looks like that's tapering. It's only a graze." His gaze snapped over to hers.

"I've had much worse."

Sadly the worse had come when he was still a boy. There was little that had been to him as an adult that had hurt more than the memories of what his stepfather had done to him as a child. Though that trauma had made him the man he was today . . . and that man had done some good things with his life. So perhaps there was a small amount of perverse gratitude there for what had come before.

A very small amount.

Emily looked at Hotch for a moment, cataloging the amount of pain in his eyes, and then let her gaze fall to his leg. Then she tucked her leg under her, leaning forward slightly to check the wound for herself.

Not that she didn't believe him, but . . . she carefully pulled the tattered scraps of black material back . . . she knew that Hotch wasn't above minimizing his own injuries so she wouldn't worry.

And they had no time for that macho bullshit right now.

So she gently felt her way around the edges of the flesh . . . feeling him tense up as she went . . . but also noticing he also made no effort to stop her. And once she was sure that the tissue damage was minimal, Emily shifted down further to tear off a piece of his already ripped pant leg . . . it was the only accessible cloth they had . . . and went to tie it around his calf.

But then a thought popped into her head. "Oh," and she shot the confused Hotch a quick smile that clearly caught him off guard.

"What?" He asked in surprise. Unsure of what exactly she could have found to smile about right then.

"One second," Emily said as she started digging excitedly in her pants pocket.

And that one second later . . . with a flourish . . . she pulled out a little sample bottle of hand sanitizer. Given all the people they met and the disgusting things they generally touched on a daily basis . . . gloves or no gloves . . . she always washed her hands before she ate or drank anything.

And as she immediately started squeezing a small amount of the clear gel on Hotch's leg, she heard him hiss slightly before he huffed out a tense, "thank God for your germ phobia."

"Yeah," she snorted back, "who would have thought my mental psychoses would save you from gangrene."

Hopefully. It wasn't exactly a proper washing and cleaning of all the dirt and grit, but it was certainly much better than just leaving it as it was. And before she tied the strip of his wet pant leg around the wound, she made sure to rub the gel all along the inner fabric.

"There," with a sigh as she tightly tied off the ends of the makeshift bandage to prevent the wound from bleeding again, "battlefield dressing." Then she slumped back against the side of the truck, "hopefully that's the only one we'll need today."

Probably a foolish hope . . . it was unlikely they were getting out of this one without some major trauma on both sides . . . but a girl could dream.

Hotch was quiet for a moment as he looked over Emily's handiwork while listening to her slightly ragged breath at his side.

"You did good," he whispered as he turned to look at her, "now what about you? How's your head?"

The light wasn't bright enough for him to really check her eyes. They appeared to be focused on him and he wasn't noticing any obvious dilation, but beyond that he couldn't see if anything looked fuzzy.

Even if she did have a concussion . . . not unlikely given the vomiting and the passing out . . . there wasn't much he could do about it right now.

"Um," Emily's hand came up to brush the bump on her temple, "okay I think. The nausea's passed, and since my little," she rolled her eyes, "'nap', my head's feeling clearer. Still have a headache and I'd very much like to go home now, but I think overall I'm okay."

Though it would be nice to have a quick head x-ray to confirm everything was as it was supposed to be, Emily was relatively sure (knock wood) that she wouldn't be dying of any massive internal bleeding.

Well . . . a little pit of fear circled in her stomach . . . at least not from this particular head wound anyway.

"Okay," Hotch nodded as he took the sanitizing gel from her hand, "good. Then," he turned slightly, reaching to squeeze a few drops of the anti-bacterial on her cut, "then let me just clean this out."

Once he was done, he dabbed a drop on his tree wound . . . a minor scratch, but still . . . and then tucked the little bottle back into her hand. "Now hide this. I'm sure we'll need it again."

God knows how long it was going to take them to figure a way out of this hell, and the longer it took, the greater the chances that every little cut, scrape and bullet wound would become a ticking time bomb of infection. If they were lucky maybe the gel would at least keep them from getting sick until they could get proper medical attention. Of course . . . he thought bitterly . . . thus far they were not having a particularly lucky day.

"Right," Emily's fist closed tightly around the bottle. And she was about to tuck it down into her pocket when she realized at some point they might search them . . . or take their clothes. The second thought was much more upsetting than the first, but she pushed it aside as she tried to think of a decent hiding location that wouldn't forever traumatize both her and Hotch.

Fortunately the bottle was small . . . it held about two ounces . . . so she settled on tucking it down into her bra and slightly under her right breast. If she was down to the moment of losing her bra then clearly the hand sanitizer had lost whatever small power it had as a Talisman.

She'd be right fucked by then.

Seeing Emily's choice of hiding place, Hotch nodded approvingly. "Good," he sat back, his hand tentatively reaching over to take hers, "good choice."

Then he sighed as the grasp on her fingers tightened.

"Okay Prentiss," he said softly as his gaze fell to the red floor, "here's the thing. At least one of them, Thomas, the Beta, he's a sexual sadist, and he's fixated on you already. And I don't have a plan right now to get us out of us."

Feeling her body start to shake, Hotch immediately turned to catch her eyes as his voice thickened. "But I promise you that I won't let them take you away from me. I swear, if there's a breath in my body Prentiss I won't let that happen. But that means," he cleared his throat, "that if it comes to it, we might have to make an impossible choice. Do you know what I'm saying?"

These were things they needed to discuss now, now while they could still think rationally.

"Yes," Emily whispered back as their gazes locked, "I understand. But really," tears sprang to her eyes, "if it comes down to that, the choice will have already been made."

If Hotch was killed or completely incapacitated and she knew that they were about to do God knows what to her, then she'd find a way to off herself before the UNSUBs could do it their way.

It wasn't physically hard to kill yourself . . . a shard of broken glass, a rusty nail . . . an open window. You just had to have the will to go through with it.

And the will the live was the hardest thing to break.

But knowing the unimaginable suffering left by the sexual sadist killers in their files, Emily knew that if she was left alone with no hope of getting away, she wouldn't hesitate to slice her own throat. It would be a preferable death . . . a quick death . . . so compared to whatever new hell would be coming for her, there would be no question of the choice to be made. Otherwise they could keep her alive for days, weeks . . . her tears started to pool as she thought back to a case in Colorado . . . years. Suicide wouldn't be an impossible choice.

It would be the only one.

"Hey," Hotch impulsively slipped his arm up and around her as he murmured, "don't cry Prentiss. We'll make sure it doesn't come to that. We'll figure something out. We're smarter than them. Next to Reid, we're probably the first people ever abducted by a serial killer that were actually trained to survive one."

Not that Reid had come back unscathed . . . the psychological trauma was great . . . but Hotch was an old hand at suppressing psychological trauma. And he had a feeling from a few things that had happened over their months together, that Prentiss was too. So as long as he could get back home with both he and Emily in two relatively whole pieces, then it would be a win.

Emily sniffled as she turned her head into Hotch's side, drawing strength from this closed off man who was extending himself physically in a way that he never had before.

If Hotch was hugging . . . she snorted to herself . . . he must really think this was the end.

Then she realized that the joke wasn't really funny . . . there was a little too much truth to it for her comfort level . . . so the slight bit of levity that filled her left as soon as it came.

"Hotch, uh," she cleared her throat as another thought came to her, "what if it's not just me that they're interested in? I mean, in that way. Are you going with the same out?"

Just because one of them had initially latched onto her didn't mean they wouldn't be just as interested in Hotch too. If for no other reason than an effort to break him. And though the conversation was awkward . . . asking your alpha male boss how exactly he was planning on handling a Deliverance type moment . . . it still needed to be asked.

She needed to know what to expect.

"Uh," Hotch's brow wrinkled as some very unpleasant images popped into his head, "I hadn't thought about that really, but yes." He blinked those images from his mind, "absolutely."

Huh. Good thing she'd brought that up. Once Thomas had focused in on Prentiss, Hotch had honestly stopped giving his own situation any consideration beyond simple torture and his need to stay alive as her protector. But sexual sadists often tended to be equal opportunity psychopaths.

He could be in just as much trouble as Emily was on that front. So now they were on a 'you jump, we jump' pact.

Not a commitment he'd thought he'd be making with anyone today.

"Okay," he patted her shoulder before pulling away his arm, "now that that's covered, let's focus on getting the hell out of here before those are the only options left. Do you have anything that could used as a weapon?"

A quick check of his watch showed they'd been driving for about six minutes, and he wasn't sure how much longer they'd have to sort these things out.

No time to squander.

"Well," Emily shifted slightly to dig her hands into the pockets of her black suit pants, "I don't think I have anything else helpful with me besides the sanitizer."

After feeling around, a second later she shook her head and whispered, "definitely no. Just my badge and ID, a little bit of loose change and some really soggy gum that's melting into my pants."

As Emily was laying out the contents of her pockets, Hotch had dropped his arm down to go through his own. Not much help there either.

"I have one 9 mm clip," he murmured, "badge and ID, a box of Tic Tacs and a bill fold. Actually," he pulled out three of the items, "how much can you fit in your bra?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Hotch realized what he said and he felt the blush climb his cheeks. It didn't help when he saw Emily look at him in shock for a second right before she burst out laughing. The sound was most likely covered by the storm and the bumpy drive, and fortunately she quickly slapped her hand over her mouth.

"Sorry," Emily chuckled as tears of mirth filled her eyes, "but I was just so not expecting that to ever be a question you'd ask me."

Yep, Hotch was definitely the man to get sucked into hell with.

"Yeah, well," Hotch's lips twitched slightly despite his embarrassment, "desperate times. So," he held out the things in his hand, "what do you think? Can you tuck a little more in there?"

Not that he expected her to be able to find room for all of it, but these were things they might need later. The mints might be all the food they saw for awhile, and if they could get their hands on a weapon again, the clip could come in handy.

Emily stared down at the things in Hotch's hand. Then she huffed as she pulled her shirt open to look down.

"Well," she huffed humorlessly at her cleavage, "believe it or not this thing was designed simply to hold my breasts, not as a man purse for you. But," she looked up at him with a faintly amused eye roll, "I think I can find a little more room."

Seeing his look of relief she quickly shook her head, "not all of it though. I'm not Pamela Anderson," she pulled half of the bills from his fold, unfolded them and tucked them flat against her breasts, "this is no problem," she muttered as she tucked a twenty below her nipple, "though I do know now how a stripper feels."

"Prentiss, I'm . . ."

Hearing the apology coming, Emily waved him off as she reached down for the Tic Tacs, "no worries sir. As you said, desperate times." And with that, she very uncomfortably worked the small clear box down next to the sanitizer, though tucking on the other side with the hopes of it staying fairly still and quiet.

Fat chance there.

Seeing Emily's jaw twinge in pain as she pulled her hand out, Hotch frowned, "are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," she sighed as she picked up the clip, "just not used to having things with hard edges in there. Now this," she focused on the stack of bullets, "this will not fit. But," she looked up at him as a thought came to her, "I could maybe tuck a few spare bullets in there by themselves. They might come in handy, right?"

Hotch's thoughts began to whirl as he considered the possible uses of spare bullets.

Gunpowder.

And the bills were paper. He'd wanted to keep them to pass notes, or perhaps as simply currency again if they could get back to civilization. But that little bit of gunpowder and paper together with a heat source, and he could have a nice distraction.

A nice fire.

"Yeah," he nodded firmly as a few scenarios passed through his brain, "they might at that. But," he put his hand over hers as she started slipping out a few of the bullets, "just be careful."

"Hotch," Emily looked up at him in confusion, "they aren't going to just randomly go off in my bra."

"I know that Prentiss," Hotch responded patiently, "but we don't know where we'll be ending up next. Could be a basement, could be a furnace. Could be we end up right next to said furnace or some other heat source. So just be careful and remember they're filled with gunpowder."

Then . . . seeing the stress he'd just put on her face . . . Hotch quickly tacked on a little joke to try to relieve some of the tension.

"It's just not a good place to have a workman's comp injury," he added dryly, "right?"

Emily huffed slightly as her eyes dropped back to the loose bullets in her hand.

"Right."

Oh man, that would suck.

"Okay," she slipped the first bullet from the stack on her hand, "now that you've just made me picture how unflattering a disfigurement that would be, I think I'm just going to go with two here."

She tucked one on the left outer side, and then one on the right. Once she was done she pulled out her shirt slightly to stretch it so it wouldn't cling. Fortunately it was a high scoop neck so she didn't think anything would be seen from above. Still though, she turned to Hotch and uttered a question she never thought she'd be asking of her married boss.

"How do my boobs look, sir?"

"Um," he started to reach over to fix something poking out, and then looked up at her rather awkwardly, "may I?"

Emily held her hands up, "feel free. There's no point in doing this if everything isn't hidden."

So with that Emily tipped her head back slightly, watching as her boss very carefully . . . with just his index finger barely skirting the edge of her skin . . . tucked the bullet that was apparently visible from where he sat, further down from it must have been sliding out. Then he tipped his head slightly, staring intently in a way that probably would have turned her on a bit if not for the completely inappropriate circumstances and the fact that it was Hotch doing the staring. Boss Hotch. Married Hotch.

Off limits Hotch.

Though he knew it was a clinical assessment . . . a very _necessary_ clinical assessment under very dire circumstances . . . Hotch couldn't help the faint embarrassment he felt staring so openly at Prentiss' chest. It was a very nice chest, one that was now covered in a very wet shirt, and it was also a very nice chest that he had spent the last ten months very particularly NOT staring at as they went through their work days together.

Even with the horrible things that were coming up soon enough, this moment just felt weird in a plain old awkward kind of way.

Still though . . . he puffed her shirt out slightly to see how it fell . . . this was necessary. As she'd said, there was no point in trying to keep anything with them if they walked outside and the UNSUBs took one look at a pair of obviously lumpy breasts with little square pointy objects sticking out of them.

That would be like a Saturday Night Live sketch.

"They look good. I mean," he rolled his eyes as he looked up at her, "well, you know what I mean. Nothing's poking up or bunching out. The money's flat."

"Good," Emily nodded to herself as she handed him back the clip and the rest his money, "better put these away."

She could feel they'd just slowed down for a turn, and that probably meant they were on a side road now, possibly leading to their house of cabin. And with that thought, whatever small bit of distraction her boob stuffing had provided her . . . was gone.

As she watched Hotch tucking his things away, she impulsively wound her arm through his and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Seeing as you just had your hand on my boobs," she murmured, "I'm going to feel free to do this now while I can. Because quite frankly sir," her voice faded slightly in embarrassment, "I'm scared shitless and it makes me feel better to know that you're here with me."

She wasn't quite sure how he'd respond to that statement. It wasn't very "agenty" but she didn't much care about her pride or her career path at the moment. They were gearing up for hard times. And if she could get a quick snuggle in with Superman before that happened, then all the better. She was quite sure Lois Lane had done the same on many occasion when the world was about to end.

And if she didn't . . . Emily rubbed her cheek on Hotch's slightly damp shirt . . . she was one stupid bitch.

For a moment Hotch froze as he felt Emily snuggling openly into his side in a way that no woman but Haley had for over two decades. It was a different sensation as when he was holding her earlier. Then she was injured and he was protecting her. And even after that, here in the truck when things had calmed down some, when he put his arm around her shoulder, it was just for a second.

Just a reminder that he was there.

Now though there was no imminent danger . . . at least in the bad man trying to rip her out of his arms kind . . . and she was curled into his side holding onto him like a teddy bear. But there was nothing in him that could ask her to sit up and let him go.

She said she was scared . . . and she had damn good reason to be . . . so how could he be so cruel as to ask her to move away to a professional distance? They'd left that world of professional distances far behind. Besides that though . . . he took a breath before slowly untangling her to lift his arm over her shoulders . . . he was scared too. And if this was the last good, kind person he was going to see before he died, he would keep her close.

His fingers tightened into her arm as he took a breath and then tentatively tipped his head down to rest against hers.

Maybe they could be stronger together.

Feeling Hotch pulling her into his side, Emily felt those hot tears start to prick her eyes again. But she quickly blinked them away.

There'd be lots of time for crying later. When she was home.

Or perhaps as her fingernails were ripped out with a pair of rusty pliers.

Yeah . . . she swallowed . . . all kinds of cry fest activities possibly to come. No reason to waste this moment doing that. So instead she curled her fingers in Hotch's shirt, putting her head down to listen to his heartbeat, taking note of the rhythm . . . it was too fast . . . and the knowledge that this was perhaps the last good man she would ever know.

And there were some things that needed to be said.

"Hotch," she whispered against his shirt, "whatever happens, you remember it's not your fault. These were all my choices that brought me to this moment. And honestly," one hot tear spilled over and down her cheek, "with the exception of the last hour, I wouldn't trade a thing. It's been an honor and a privilege to work with you," she cleared her throat, "and it is my fervent wish and hope that we can keep doing it for a long time to come."

Hearing Emily's heartfelt absolution of him, Hotch felt his eyes begin to burn . . . how did the woman always manage to read his mind? And not trusting his own voice for a moment, he simply tugged her a little closer as he rubbed her arm and nodded. After a moment he whispered back.

"Thank you for that. And I already told you what find work I think you do. So please know," he swallowed, "as long as I have a job, you have a job. As long as you want to stay in the Unit, we'll have a place for you."

For a moment Hotch heard no reply, then he felt Emily push herself up slightly and a second later she pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered as she dropped her head back to his chest, "that means more than you can know."

For so long she'd been searching for a place where she felt like she belonged, where her quirks and abilities were appreciated and respected . . . she'd finally found it. And it meant so much to know that they . . . he . . . wanted her to stay as much as she wanted to be there. It was another thing to hold onto in the hours to come.

It was a future.

And she felt Hotch's arm wrap around her again, Emily closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of the rain beating on the roof, the gears of the engine grinding as they climbed a hill, and her own blood pounding in her head. But above it all, there was one steadying thump . . . Hotch's heart beating.

And that was the sound . . . the image . . . that she held onto.

Life.

This man was warm and solid and strong and so very alive. And if she could just stay focused on that . . . the truck began to brake and she felt another tear trickle out from under her lashes . . . then she was sure of one thing.

They'd find their way home together.

* * *

_A/N 2: Yes, there was some deliberate mirroring of their thoughts at the end. Them being in a mental synch is a trademark of Girl H/P. And I thought it would be more interesting to tell the initial part of their abduction from essentially a "blind" POV. It was a less conventional way to tell the showdown portion. Emily can hear the words being thrown around, and feel Hotch's body physically reacting to the different external dangers, but she can't see them herself. I found that more upsetting. And pulls together the thread from the other chapter about Emily's feelings on having your eyes sewn shut as you were tortured. _

_And yes, I know, their rape conversation was uncomfortable, it was meant to be. There are lots of heavy topics that can be joked about, but I don't consider rape or suicide among that group. But those are the real practical considerations to be discussed in a situation like that. If it comes to it, how exactly do you want to die and how much do you want to hurt before you go? And though I'm obviously of course not advocating suicide as an out to anything (kids, the campaign's right, things really do get better), given this fictional world, and their work in it, they've seen the amount of suffering that comes before death with killers like these, I'm thinking these are two people that would choose their own door number three. So that conversation's done, but that's why I gave you the heads up at the beginning. Because if you read that scene, by the time you got to the end you'd be feeling a little queasy about what was maybe coming in that department. _

_On the lighter end, pulling in the Superman/Lois Lane theme as found elsewhere with them in the Girl'verse. And also pulling in their approach of banter as a means of connection, and simply discussing awkward personal matters in a frank manner so they can move on to the next thing. So you can see this is continuing to be the them of Girl to date, but with their relationship accelerating at a very difference pace. Though again, Hotch is still married so there's no sexual tension, just the awkwardness of having the stuffing of your bra be a focal point of conversation with your boss. And hell, we've all been there!_

_As always thanks for the feedback guys. The site's been screwy lately (shocker) and it's not easily letting you respond to reviews. All the links say they're dead so I have to do like a PM to respond, and well, you know how behind I am in general, now picture me trying to actually write everybody an individual PM and you'll see how much slower things are now :)_


	7. Into The Woods

**Author's Note**: This bad boy clocks in at just under 12,000 words. So essentially this would be three normal sienna size chapters rolled into one monster. Harkens back to the days of writing Mirror :) And I could have (and so wanted to) cut it at like 3 different points. But I kept pushing the story out as far as I could without losing my mind (hence the week for posting, again it's equivalent of three posts people!) because I really don't want this to drag into the fall. I'm trying here folks, I'm trying :)

**WARNINGS: For imagery and "salty" language :) I don't think we're at M though (I believe teenagers as a species are quite familiar with a bit of the salty language) so I'm leaving the rating at T for now.**

**Twitter Account: ffsienna27 – For story announcements, etc. If the alerts . . . or the site . . . are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. **

Direct continuation of the scene.

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**Bonus Challenge #23 - Halloween**

Show: Mystery Diagnosis

Title Challenge: Why Is Emily Screaming?

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**Into The Woods**

Though Emily felt the truck begin to brake at the top of the hill, it didn't actually come to a full stop for another two or three minutes. And that was two or three minutes of flat . . . though very bumpy . . . surface travel.

It seemed to be some sort of access road.

And just before they came to the full stop, the truck veered sharply to the left, and then the world around them seemed to get even darker. It had to be an artificial darkness . . . heavier tree cover most likely . . . but the extremely agitated Emily knew that artificial or not, darkness was not their friend. So in an effort to calm her mounting panic . . . they were going to be taken from the truck soon . . . she tightened her grasp on Hotch's dress shirt. And as his warm . . . now familiar . . . hand, folded comfortingly over hers, she closed her eyes again and tried to focus on escape.

And that was because Emily figured that escape plans were going to be what kept her cool and collective Agent Prentiss persona externally intact. But as she started to mentally reverse their whole trip back to the tree that was down in the road . . . back to their car . . . despair began to fill her heart.

An easy escape was really not looking good.

There were trees down all along the route. And that route was at least six or seven miles of hills and curves over badly maintained access roads. And under the best of circumstances that would be a very long distance to traverse on foot to find even minimal safety . . . again, their own vehicle . . . but Hotch had a bullet hole in his leg.

So there would be no running at all.

It would be a slow to medium limp with two psychopaths chasing after them. And honestly, even if they were able to somehow incapacitate these men, she still wasn't even sure if Hotch would be able to walk that far without collapsing. Really, she didn't care how much personal stamina the man possessed, she didn't see how his body was going to be able to _physically_ hold up for that lengthy a journey.

Of course that was also presuming that their journey had actually ended . . . that this was their last stop . . . and that was hard to say.

Because their captors hadn't turned off the engine yet.

They were just sitting there. Waiting for something maybe, for what Emily couldn't begin to imagine, but it was unnerving. And she didn't need anything else to throw off her control, so that's when she decided she needed to stop thinking about escape plans that were going to result with a bullet in the back rather than a bullet in the forehead, and start focusing in again on where they were in the then and now.

Because the then and now was what she needed to survive.

So knowing that sounds would carry further now that the vehicle had stopped, Emily took a breath as she tried to quietly twist around to see what she could see through the cloudy windows on either side of the truck.

Not much.

And knowing that Hotch was doing the same thing that she was . . . attempting to get their bearings . . . she tipped her head back slightly to look up at him.

"Can you see anything?" She murmured worriedly.

"Just that it's much darker out there now," Hotch whispered back as his eyes dropped down to his watch, "and it's barely five thirty so the sun hasn't set. And," his gaze snapped up to hers as he continued softly, "the storm doesn't seem any worse so I'm guessing wherever we are now, it's pretty far into the woods."

And that was bad. Because even if by some unbelievable miracle they managed a quick escape from these men, the farther into the woods they were, the greater the impediment to actually getting back to real safety.

To the real world.

Yes, the trees would give them some shelter to hide . . . but probably not much. Because these men had most likely spent their entire lives roaming . . . hunting . . . this forest. And as prey in this storm, Hotch knew that he and Prentiss would probably hold little more chance of escape than a pair of does. And does could run a hell of a lot faster than they could.

Especially in his condition.

The ever present throbbing in his leg was a constant reminder to Hotch that he was far from peak right now. And he could see from the emotions shifting over Prentiss' face that she knew that too. Then he saw her mouth twist right before she dropped her head to his chest and once more closed her eyes.

"So now we have to somehow manage to time our miraculous escape to coincide with daylight hours," she muttered in disgust, "great."

Not that she'd thought that this situation was going to be getting better anytime soon . . . clearly they were deep in the shit . . . but still, until then she hadn't considered that there would be obstacles to their fleeing beyond simply the distance to safety, and actually escaping the psychopaths with the guns. But now she was really thinking about the tree cover, processing that larger danger around them.

The woods.

An organic prison.

And though Emily wasn't sure exactly where they were on the map, she knew that they were very close to a national forest. And that meant that if they took a wrong turn in the trees . . . likely given escape generally involved a lot of zigging and zagging . . . they could easily die in the wilderness before they ever had a chance to drop dead of exhaustion on the miles of paved roadways.

Fabulous . . . she thought back bitterly to her musings on death by suicide or death by torture . . . now there was a door number three.

Death by exposure.

Strangely enough, the somewhat ridiculously _righteous_ indignation she felt at that realization . . . at what an _obnoxious_ way that would be to die . . . was a helpful coping mechanism for a few moments. It was at least a distraction . . . a new feeling . . . that took her outside the circle of the fairly controlled panic . . . and the not so controlled fear and terror . . . that had been cycling through her brain since she'd regained consciousness twenty minutes earlier.

It was a horrible roller coaster of emotions.

Hotch leaned down slightly to press his lips to Emily's ear.

"If you get the chance to run," he whispered with a squeeze to her hand, "I want you to go no matter what time of day it is. You have a better chance of escaping by yourself. You know with my leg," he cleared his throat as it started to catch, "I'll just slow you down."

Even as Hotch pleaded with Emily to go without him, part of him knew that she would dismiss his words just as she had earlier in the car. It wasn't her way.

Still though . . . his jaw twitched in agitation . . . he had to try. Getting her out of there alive was his primary concern. Yes, he had a family waiting for him, but that life was in such an alternate reality that in a moment like this, it was almost a fantasy world. Hell, it was almost a fantasy world even when he was immersed _in_ it. So for him that world really didn't exist right now, only this one did. This one here with Prentiss and the men who had taken them. And his safety here . . . his _survival_ here . . . was secondary to hers.

Any real man would agree.

Hearing Hotch again make the ridiculous suggestion that if given the opportunity she leave him to die, Emily huffed humorlessly against his shirt.

"We've already discussed this sir," she said softly, her voice heavy with emotion, "I'm _not_ leaving you here alone for the death and dismemberment portion of our shared abduction."

She tipped her head back to catch his eyes, and taking note of the open desperation in his . . . in his ingrained need to play hero and save the girl . . . a sad smile touched Emily's lips. Then she patted his chest.

"I'm sorry Hotch," she whispered, "I know how badly you want me not here, but you have to know that I'd just never be able to live with myself if I left you. So please accept that you're stuck with me for the duration of our trip to the fifth circle."

With those words said . . . and said with a tone leaving no room for discussion . . . Emily tucked her head back down. She needed to escape that look in his eyes, the uncharacteristically raw emotion on his face. It was frightening to see Hotch actually scared.

Even if his fear was for her safety.

And sensing from Hotch's gentle pat of her hand and the husky "okay" whispered in her ear, that he'd at least acknowledged . . . if not actually agreed with . . . the finality of her response, a faint prickle of tears burned Emily's eyes.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. All the times that she'd hoped to perhaps make a little dent in his Hotch-shield, to maybe attain some degree of the genuine . . . open . . . give and take that she had occasionally glimpsed in his interactions with Gideon, it wasn't supposed to happen this way. Not with his walls being breached through a genuine fear . . . terror . . . that his injury would be the death knell for them both.

That was not in the plans for either of them.

And she gave herself a moment . . . and a few tight breaths . . . to move into this new world they were now living in. The one where Aaron Hotchner . . . her inscrutable, indestructible, in some ways super human boss . . . displayed the fears of an ordinary man.

It was an adjustment in her view of him . . . one that both humbled and saddened her.

Though she was touched that he cared that much for her . . . as much as she did for him . . . it still wasn't right. It wasn't _her_ Hotch. It wasn't how he wanted others to see him.

With vulnerabilities.

So in a way . . . even if these men didn't yet know it . . . she could see that they had already broken him.

Bastards.

As a result of Emily's momentary distraction . . . and discomfort . . . with these new developments in her relationship with Hotch, it took her a few moments longer than it should have to notice something very important.

They still hadn't turned off the engine.

Shit . . . her skin started to crawl as she twisted to stare at the metal wall dividing them . . . what the _hell_ were they doing up there? Because now . . . her eyes dropped to her watch . . . at least five minutes had passed since they'd stopped the truck. And they definitely should have been out of the cab by then. They should have already sloshed through the mud and the rain and come around to undo the padlock and yank open the creaking metal door.

And then . . . she could see the whole awful scene in her mind's eye . . . they should have ordered them out at gunpoint. And that's when Hotch would have refused to comply . . . she knew that this would happen as well as she knew her own name . . . then one of these terrible men should have pointed his gun at her head, before stating their orders again. And _that's_ when Hotch would have obeyed them.

After he'd demonstrated that he wasn't going to just roll over and take it.

All of that posturing should have happened over the last four to five minutes.

Yet it hadn't.

Of course Emily didn't _want_ to get to that moment . . . the moment that they were dragged from their relative shelter by threat of her imminent death . . . but this day had long since veered from her wants and needs. They were now down to inevitabilities of fate. And it was _inevitable_ that they would be forced out of this truck by the barrel of a gun.

That _was _going to happen.

And the fact that it hadn't happened yet . . . another nervous glance at her watch showed that they were ticking into six motionless minutes . . . was causing her serious concern.

Again, what the HELL were they doing up there! Were they waiting for someone else?

Some_thing_ else?

Though it might have seemed like the additional minutes alone would have been welcomed . . . and of course on some level they were . . . not knowing what they were planning for them was raising Emily's stress levels incrementally with every second that now ticked past. And she could tell from the increased tension in Hotch's body as he twisted to look out the windows again, that he was feeling the same way. Even within the fucked up world they were now living in, something wasn't right.

Something was going very wrong.

"What do you think . . .?"

Emily's frantic whisper to Hotch was cut off but a sudden shouting coming from the cab area of the truck. And as the matching jolts of fear and surprise shot through her body, Emily felt Hotch's fingers dig painfully into her arm.

She wasn't the only one thrown by the yelling.

And as she tipped her head, listening frantically to the words being shouted over the rain still drumming on the metal roof, her heart began to pound in her chest. They were fighting over what to do with them . . . her eyes started to burn . . . and the two options coming through were as bad as she'd feared.

Worse even.

They seemed to be split over whether she and Hotch should be taken into "the pit" . . . Christ knows what the hell that was . . . or killed immediately and tossed for the wildlife before somebody else came looking for them.

That was bad enough. But as Emily was still processing the reality that she could now _truly_ be just seconds from taking a bullet to the head, another sentence came bleating through the metal wall. A sentence that actually made her racing heart stop full for a split second . . . it actually skipped a beat.

"THE FUCK YOU SAY LONNIE! EITHER WAY I ALREADY TOLD YOU THAT I'M WANTIN' THE BITCH 'TIL MORNING!"

The voice speaking the words was loud, demanding . . . and completely insane.

It was Tom.

And as a new jolt of adrenaline flooded Emily's body . . . mentally speculating about your upcoming rape and torture, and _hearing_ about it from the potential perpetrator were NOT the same things(!) . . . Emily's heart started pounding once again.

Then she began to quake against Hotch's side.

It was purely involuntary . . . a combination of the chemicals surging through her body and the psychological reaction to hearing a sexual sadist's plans to gruesomely violate you for the next twelve hours . . . but given that she was trying to so hard to stay in something resembling her outwardly calm and cool Agent Prentiss mode, Emily felt a wave of shame rise up to mix with the revulsion and abject terror washing over her.

Because regardless of what happened next, she needed to keep her shit together. Whether they opened the door and gunned them down like dogs, or she and Hotch were forced to go through with their pact before Tom dragged her off into the woods, either way, she was going down . . . she was going _out_ . . . with her dignity fully intact.

She was NOT . . . she felt a burst of rage . . . going to DIE a blubbering , whiny little BITCH!

The sudden flood of anger helped a bit to push the terrible rape images from Emily's brain. But it didn't do much for the flow of emotions coursing through her shaking body.

It just added another to the mix.

So she shook a shuddering breath to try to get the physiological reaction under control as well as the psychological. And that's when she felt Hotch's arm tighten around her shoulders. Then he leaned his head down and pressed his lips to her ear again.

"It's okay Prentiss," he whispered hoarsely, "if Lonnie wanted us dead he would have just shot us in the street. And Tom's not in charge so he's not getting his way on that point either. And you know the more he challenges the alpha . . . Lonnie . . . the better that is for us. So whatever this pit is, that's where we're going next."

Though Hotch too was sickened by the words just spoken . . . and he wasn't at all looking forward to discovering the mysteries of "the pit" . . . he knew that they'd hit Emily much harder than they'd hit him. He wasn't the one on the sexual sadist's to do list. So he just needed to remind her of something that he knew . . . something that otherwise she'd have already figured out herself.

Lonnie's words were the only ones that mattered.

Feeling a small kernel of calm trying to reassert itself . . . having Hotch's authoritative voice in her head while he had his strong arm wrapped around her body, was better than any stress reduction exercises they'd been taught at the Academy . . . Emily nodded slowly against his chest.

"Right," the words were a slow exhale as she tried to calm down, "we're going to the pit."

Her voice sounded almost calm . . . almost. She was still scared shitless, but the worst of her panic attack was passing.

Thank God.

Feeling Emily's physical shaking slowly begin to subside, Hotch felt a little of the tension release from his own body. They were in this together, and if she started going down the rabbit hole, he feared that he'd be following soon after.

After all, that wasn't a place that he could leave her to come back from alone.

So once he'd tucked her a little closer . . . now that he'd allowed himself to let her into his space, he was finding the need for human contact in that situation overwhelming . . . Hotch focused back in on the words that Lonnie had screamed, the place where they were going next.

The Pit.

In his mind he pictured it with a capital P. It just sounded horrendous. But was it a literal pit of some kind? Perhaps a trap they set for their victims? Or . . . his tension began to rise again as he heard the engine finally shut off . . . just a euphemism for their own personal killing grounds?

And how many people had been brought there? How many people had they killed to date?

How many were they still holding?

Though Hotch knew that he wasn't investigating these men . . . he was just trying to survive them . . . he still felt that these were important questions to ask.

Important answers to find.

Because the more they knew about these killers and their crimes to date, the better chance they had of figuring a way out of this nightmare. And Hotch was clinging to that belief with white knuckles.

The belief that they could somehow escape.

Hotch himself was a survivalist . . . if not for their societal differences, his stepfather could have been a drinking buddy of Lonnie's . . . and he knew that Emily was too.

His grip around her tightened as he heard the doors slam . . . so they just had to keep their heads on straight and their tempers under control. Not that he hadn't considered . . . accepted . . . that there might come a time where he needed to unleash the demons that he kept down in the dark. But . . . his adrenaline began surging again as the chain on the door began to scrape . . . that would be the option of last resort.

There were still other cards to play.

"Play woozy," Hotch whispered furtively in Emily's ear, "it'll help keep some advantage to us if they think you're out of it."

That was one card.

"Okay," Emily swallowed the lump forming in her throat, "Hotch I . . ."

"I know Prentiss." Hotch cut her off, "I know. Me too." The door started to pull back and he added in a hiss, "stay quiet, let me talk and don't let go of my hand."

The words had barely left Hotch's lips when the door swung wide to reveal an armed Tom and Lonnie standing in the drizzling rain. Tom had a sickening smile on his face, and Lonnie . . . Hotch's brow immediately darkened . . . well, Hotch didn't like the expression on his face at all.

He was just staring.

And seeing the intensity of his gaze . . . his obvious assessment of them . . . for the first time Hotch began to worry that perhaps Tom might have some bit of sway with Lonnie after all. And right now . . . given Tom's plans for Emily . . . even a small bit of sway was bad for them.

But really, only God knew what Tom had said to his partner after the fight had quieted down. Whatever it was . . . Emily's fingernails began to dig into his palm . . . it appeared to have given Lonnie some serious food for thought. And Tom . . . Hotch's jaw twisted as he began staring him down . . . some reason to smile.

That hideous smile alone was cause for concern.

Hotch was so focused on getting the upper hand with Tom, that he was only half paying attention to Lonnie. And that's when Lonnie suddenly decided to raise his rifle.

Then he fired.

HOLY SHIT!

It was the only thought in Hotch's mind as he felt his body hit the bed of the truck. A millisecond later the bullet shattered the window just to their right. For just a moment Hotch thought that maybe he'd been hit . . . that that's how he'd ended up flat on the truck bed . . . but then he realized that he was lying flat because of Emily.

She'd knocked him over.

She'd knocked him over and was now laying half on top of him . . . she'd saved his life.

He could have kissed her.

"Told you she was fakin'," Tom grunted in satisfaction to Lonnie. Then he turned his head back to leer at Emily, "weren't you sugar? You was playing possum."

Stunned at their ingenuity, Emily could barely catch her breath as she looked over in horror to see the same level of shock on Hotch's face.

Holy shit.

These two were _much_ smarter than their average UNSUBs! And more disturbing still, given his comments to Lonnie, that little scare tactic appeared to have been Tom's idea.

And he wasn't the one in charge.

Or perhaps . . . he shot her a lascivious wink which made her blood run cold . . . he was. Maybe he was only letting Lonnie believe he was calling the shots. And if that was the case . . . Hotch pushed her slightly behind him as they shifted up to a crouching position . . . they were in a hell of a lot more trouble than Emily had feared.

And that . . . her fingers tangled around Hotch's again . . . was really saying something.

"All righty then," Lonnie took a few steps back as he locked gazes with Hotch, "you two come on out here," he gestured with his rifle, "before the next shot goes between the pretty lady's eyes."

Though Hotch knew that Lonnie was serious . . . and that he clearly understood the way to control him was through Emily . . . he still hesitated for just a moment. Because that little trick with the rifle had thrown him quite a bit.

He'd made a colossal error in judgment.

Their backwoods looks, and uneducated speech patterns, were clearly disguising a much higher level of intelligence. And it was obviously an intelligence to be reckoned with.

You fucking idiot . . . Hotch's internal castigation spiked as his hold on Emily's fingers tightened . . . how could you be so STUPID! Really if not for Emily's reflexes they'd probably both have been . . . if not killed outright . . . at least have been grievously wounded. And that meant . . . Hotch's jaw twitched as he began slowly inching his way forward . . . that all bets were off. He was rapidly reassessing, compiling totally new profiles.

Ones to match much more worthy opponents.

And he needed to figure these two out quickly. Because he sincerely doubted that Lonnie was going to give them any additional chances to duck. Eventually he was going to aim dead center.

And that would be the end of that.

Though her ears were still ringing from the blast in the metal box, Emily knew that these men weren't going to give her another minute to recuperate. So once Hotch started moving, she reluctantly fell in line. And given the wound to his leg, Emily let Hotch set the pace on their exit from the truck. So they moved slowly with him shifting his body slightly in front of hers all the way out.

If they took another shot she knew that he was making himself the only clear target.

And though her fear and anxiety were rising with every inch they moved towards the edge of the truck, she was trying her damndest to keep on her poker face. The last thing she wanted was for these men to know that she was afraid of them.

They obviously fed on fear and submission.

But then suddenly Hotch let go of her hand and the mask slipped slightly as she felt a stab of fear that he'd decided every man/woman for him/herself. But before she could truly panic . . . or process how ludicrous that thought even was . . . his arm was wrapped tightly around her waist and he was pulling her against his side. Then he tugged her forward as he gingerly swung his legs around and dropped them to the ground.

Though Emily wasn't sure if he'd readjusted his grip simply because he thought that he'd need the physical support getting down, or if he'd decided that she'd be a little safer that way . . . perhaps both . . . but either way she didn't care.

It worked for her.

So with their positions now changed to not a sliver of the fading daylight between them, she slid her arm around to his back, fisting his still wet shirt . . . and getting wetter still with the drizzle falling . . . tightly in her fingers.

If she was ripped away from him a chunk of that material was coming with her.

Then she stood there in the rain with Hotch. She was looking outwardly defiant . . . though inwardly terrified . . . as she waited for Lonnie to tell them which way he had planned for them to die.

Fast or slow.

And as Emily kept her jaw tight and her Agent Prentiss mask firmly in place . . . all the while feeling the tension from Hotch's body bleeding into her own . . . she made no effort to hide her assessment of the scene. And as she took in the body language of the two men in front of them, she could see that Hotch was dead on that Lonnie was the alpha.

The perceived alpha anyway.

But Tom clearly wasn't nearly as submissive as the standard profile would dictate. And that was very bad for her. But . . . she took a slow breath to push away that unproductive thought . . . nothing to be done about that right now. So she shifted her gaze to take in the general terrain of the area around them.

Woods . . . trees . . . forest.

That was about all the variety of landscape that she could catalogue at the moment. Granted though, she wasn't exactly getting a 360 degree view. But given that Hotch was the unequivocal alpha of _their_ pairing . . . and she knew that he was having a little ocular pissing contest with Lonnie as to who was actually in charge right then . . . she was trying to keep from too drawing much attention to herself.

Hard to do though when you were the only one in the group with a pair of tits.

But regardless . . . her jaw clenched as Tom waved to her from over Lonnie's shoulder . . . she was hoping that perhaps if the other two men dismissed her as simply a helpless female . . . probably 'stupid bitch' would be their choice of phrasing . . . that she might eventually be able to use that to her advantage. Perhaps by ramming a pointy stick into one of Tom's ocular cavities.

Yeah . . . her temper suddenly caught a spark as she flashed on him winking . . . something like that.

And though she knew that they weren't at a place where stick ramming was going to be a helpful means of escape . . . for one thing she didn't have a stick . . . it was definitely a plan she was tucking into her back pocket. After all . . . her tight gaze floated over the wilderness around them . . . rule one for weaponry on the go . . . work with what you have on hand.

And she had a shitload of sticks.

Seeing Lonnie's arm begin to shift, Emily's internal plotting . . . and her breath . . . both skidded to a stop.

Christ . . . she readied herself to drop . . . not again!

And just as she felt Hotch's body tense as well . . . Lonnie shifted his grasp, using the Remington to point at something off to their right.

"Tom," he hollered over his shoulder, "go make a hole."

As Emily let out the breath she'd caught, she took note of Tom's reaction to this order. There was a slight curling of his upper lip . . . an expression of disgust that Lonnie couldn't see. But then a second later he tossed the strap of his own rifle back over his shoulder before taking off at a jog through the rain and the muddy pine needles on the ground.

Feeling Hotch's grip on her shift slightly, Emily's gaze followed after Tom as he ran over to the tree line.

Or . . . her brow quirked up slightly as he started moving a section of undergrowth to the side . . . maybe it wasn't the tree line.

Then he tossed a large branch over his shoulder and her eyes widened at what suddenly appeared in front of them.

It was another access road.

It was a narrow one, overgrown and clearly unused by anything with a motorized engine for at least a decade or two. But still . . . her head snapped back, her eyes catching Hotch's equally alarmed ones . . . it was a road nonetheless.

And another road was more bad news for them.

Every twist and turn here was taking them further and further into the woods. And the more privacy these men had . . . and they were about at optimum levels now . . . the more violence they could inflict with impunity. After all . . . Emily flashed back to the woman in the road . . . they had already moved beyond the world that could hear you scream as your eyes were sewn shut.

Really . . . Emily's grip on Hotch tightened as Lonnie shoved them towards the new opening . . . what more privacy could they actually need?

/*/*/*/*

As Lonnie frog marched them through the cold, drizzling rain . . . the occasional shove with the rifle barrel was being used to keep them physically and psychologically off kilter . . . Hotch's brain was whirling as he kept his vice like grip around Emily's waist.

Aside from Tom's general leering and tongue wagging at Emily . . . Hotch was about ready to pound his teeth in for that alone . . . so far neither he nor Lonnie had made any overt moves to separate the two of them. But Hotch figured that was probably only because they hadn't reached their final destination yet. They most likely figured . . . and rightly so . . . that they'd be more cooperative being moved together than they would have been otherwise.

Again, these men weren't as stupid as they appeared.

But Hotch had no illusions about their luck holding much longer . . . he winced as his bad leg twisted slightly going over a tree root . . . once they got to wherever they were going, it was likely that they were going to make a move to break them apart. And when that happened . . . his teeth sunk into his lower lip . . . well, he didn't know what he'd do.

Time would tell on that one.

But one thing that he was becoming quite sure about, was that wherever they were going next . . . this pit . . . it most likely was the primary killing field. Now that he could see how isolated it clearly was . . . they'd been walking for a good fifty, sixty yards . . . it didn't make sense that it was a physical trap for potential victims.

After all, who the hell would be out here in the middle of nowhere?

Seconds after that that question came to him, Hotch's widened as he saw an old rusty sign sticking out of the ground. And suddenly he knew who would . . . or would have _been_ . . . out here in the middle of nowhere.

Miners.

The sign said that this land belonged to the Bienville Parish Mining Company. And that meant that this pit they were being led to was an actual pit. A mining pit.

Oh Christ . . . his heart started to jackhammer as the open shaft suddenly appeared in the distance . . . they were taking them underground! And if they'd arrived that meant . . .

Hotch suddenly fell to the ground in a blinding agony.

Lonnie had just clubbed his bullet wound.

MOTHERFUCKER!

The games had just begun.

And now Tom was tearing the screeching Emily away from him. She was fighting like a demon . . . clawing and scratching . . . but then Tom socked her in the eye with his elbow. Her arms fell to her sides.

She'd been stunned.

"NO!"

Hotch screamed in pain and fury as he scrambled forward in the mud, hooking his fingers out for Emily's leg before she was gone.

Just before Tom yanked her completely from his grasp, Hotch's hand locked around her ankle.

"LET HER GO!" He screamed over and over as he tried to pull her back, "LET HER GO!"

This was it . . . he felt a wave of horror turn his blood cold as she started to slip away from him . . . this was going to be the worst day of his life.

He was going to lose Emily to this monster.

As Emily felt herself being torn away from Hotch's grip . . . the patch of his wet shirt was still clutched in her fingers . . . her head started to clear and the wave of panic and terror washing over her was joined by a rush of absolute fury. She was in a tug of war between the two men . . . Hotch with his hand locked on her leg, Tom with his buried in her hair.

Then she screamed as Tom yanked and Hotch dug his fingers in, pulling back even harder. Suddenly a chunk of hair and . . . she began howling in agony . . . scalp came off in Tom's hand.

As she fell into the muck on the ground, sobbing and screaming with blood now running down from her missing flesh, her cheek was sliced open on a sharp rock. And as Hotch screamed her name . . . some part of her took note that he was calling her Emily . . . she felt his other hand sliding over her calf.

And as he started to slide her back and towards him, she saw Tom laughing at the clump of hair and skin in his hands. Her fist closed over the rock that had just cut open her face.

She could feel both her eye and her cheek were swelling from her fall and the punches she had taken.

And then Tom tossed the bloody mess onto the ground and pushed his rifle further back over his shoulder. He started to reach down for her again. He was still laughing . . . calling her a stupid bitch.

And then she broke his nose.

As the rock bounced back to the spongy ground, blood was already gushing down his face. And before he could react beyond a surprised yelp of pain . . . she'd yanked herself out of Hotch's grasp and was hurling every stick and stone within her grasp at Tom's already broken face.

"WHO'S LAUGHING NOW YOU PIECE OF SHIT!" She screamed as her fury consumed her.

Part of her could process that Hotch was yelling for her to stop, to come back to him, but she didn't listen. She just kept scrambling farther away, looking for objects to hurl.

Objects to make Tom scream like he just had when she'd thrown that stick into his left eye.

And yes . . . her body was vibrating in a fury . . . it was nice and pointy.

Just as her hand closed around another rock . . . it was one big enough to crack his skull . . . over the din of the rain and Tom sobbing like a little girl, Emily heard the unmistakable cock of a rifle.

"Sister you drop that rock or I'm going to drop your man."

Emily spun around . . . mud flying off of her in every direction . . . to see that Lonnie had his Remington aimed right at Hotch's head.

The rock immediately fell to the ground with a plop. And her eyes were wild as she slowly inched her hands into the air.

"It's dropped!" She yelled back as her panicked gaze locked with Hotch's furious one, "now _please _Lonnie! Please take the gun away from his head!"

Oh Christ . . . another wave of horror washed over her . . . this is what the punishment for losing her temper would be.

Hotch would get his head blown off in front of her.

"Say please again." Lonnie hissed as the rifle dug further into Hotch's neck, "and then say you're real sorry, and that you're a stupid bitch."

"I'm sorry!" Emily's eyes started to burn as she saw Lonnie's finger move to the trigger, "and I'm a stupid bitch! Now _please_ Lonnie!" She was now up on her knees, "PLEASE, don't shoot him! Please, I am BEGGING you, don't hurt him!"

Please God . . . please God . . . please God . . . please God . . . please God . . . please God . . .

Over and over Emily was chanting desperately. Praying that Lonnie was . . . if not a person with a shred of humanity, that was a fool's prayer given the pile of corpses they'd seen so far . . . at least someone who was vested enough in their future torture to not want to ruin his fun quite so soon.

And all the while that Emily was begging God to give her this one HUGE break, her eyes were locked onto Hotch's. She was looking for the condemnation and the anger at her unraveling . . . it was deserved, he'd told her to stop . . . but it wasn't there.

There was cold fury, and a grimace of pain etched on his face . . . the remnants of Tom's clubbing that had started this all . . . but beyond that he looked almost calm. Like he'd known that this day would come eventually.

And most likely he had. You don't do their job for over a decade without considering the reality that one day this would happen.

You would become the focus of one of their UNSUBs.

Still though . . . hot tears started spilling over, mingling with the warm blood from her face and scalp, and the cold raindrops soaking her skin . . . _this_ day, this moment it was her fault.

But then Lonnie started to pull the rifle back slightly and for just a second Emily felt a wave of elation thinking that he was going to let Hotch live . . . for now anyway, and that's all she wanted was now . . . but then he suddenly swung the gun around, using the butt as a club that he smashed against Hotch's skull.

Hotch fell motionless to the ground.

Her screams were overshadowed by Tom's blubbery cries of, "KILL HIM LONNIE! KILL HIM _NOW_!"

Emily finally broke.

"NO! NOOO!" She started sobbing in terror as she reached towards Hotch whose visible eye was just starting to open, "PLEASE NO! I'M _SORRY_!" she started inching forward on her knees through the muck, "DON'T HURT HIM!"

Though her tears, Emily saw Lonnie eyeing her coolly. Then he huffed slightly, spun the rifle around again and pointed it back at Hotch's head.

"Say goodbye sugar'."

"NOOOO!" She screeched, "NO! YOU SHOOT ME INSTEAD!"

The words came without even a flicker of reservation or fear for her own life.

She was not going to have Hotch die as punishment for her actions.

"SHUT _UP_ PRENTISS!"

Hotch hissed in fury as he pushed himself off the ground, the steam of blood from the clubbing running down his face, sluicing through the mud and guck he'd fallen into.

Though he was dazed . . . the wound was serious enough to knock him out for a second . . . he wasn't so stunned that he didn't know what was happening. Emily was trying to trade her life for his.

And that just wasn't happening.

So with his head still spinning, he twisted around to look up at his would be executioner's face.

"Don't listen to her Lonnie," he rasped, "she's not in charge here, you are. Hell," he started to get an idea to shift his attention, "she's just a woman," his voice hardened as he wiped the stinging blood from his eyes, "she's not in charge anywhere. I never wanted her in my unit. I got stuck with her. And now you see," he shot her a look of faux scorn and disgust, "you see where she got me. Shot in the leg and about to get a bullet in the skull."

Even as he said the words, Hotch was flashing back to the day that he and Reid had been taken hostage by the LDSK out in Illinois. And he felt just as shitty tearing Emily down as he had that day with Spencer.

But again . . . he shot her a quick look . . . he was just trying to save their lives.

Even if he had to go to hell and back to get it done.

Though Emily knew what Hotch was doing . . . saying anything he could to save her life at the expense of his own . . . she still felt not only the wave of grief that he was willing to die for her, but also a separate stab of pain at his choice of words. Even if he didn't mean them . . . even if they were just a last ditch ploy to save her . . . there was too much truth there for her to simply dismiss them out of hand.

Because she feared that one of them _was_ about to die . . . her hand smacked over her mouth to cover the fresh sob rising up . . . and there was NOTHING that she could do to _stop_ it from happening!

Lonnie's brow was wrinkled as he looked back and forth between the bloodied feebs on the ground. Then his gaze flicked over to see Tom still hollering like a pussy. He had one hand on his ruined face as he pointed to the bitch feeb with the other.

"DON'T YOU EVEN _THINK_ ABOUT SHOOTING HER LONNIE! FOR WHAT SHE DONE, I'M HAVING MY PIECE OF THAT BITCH BEFORE SHE'S DEAD!"

Feeling a wave of fury rise up that Tom was again trying to tell him how to run this show . . . and that was AFTER he'd told him he could have the woman for an hour _before_ they dropped them in the damn pit . . . Lonnie's decision was made.

Just because Tom wanted her to live . . . the woman would be the one to die.

Hotch was staring up at Lonnie's face as Tom screamed at him, and he saw the twist of fury right before the shotgun was pulled from his spine and aimed at Emily's head instead.

"NOOO!" Hotch roared as he twisted his body, grabbing for the gun it as it went off.

With the surge of rage and adrenaline, both the crack to his skull and the bullet to his leg were suddenly inconsequential injuries. And with Hotch's considerable upper body strength, Lonnie immediately went toppling to the ground as Hotch attempted to yank the Remington from his hands before he could pull the trigger.

But he was too late.

As the shot echoed through the woods, Hotch's elbow connected with Lonnie's nose. But he could already hear Emily howling in pain.

OH GOD NO!

"PRENTISS!" He screamed as Lonnie's fist slammed into his ribs and Hotch reciprocated by pounding his elbow into Lonnie's face again, "PRENTISS!" he shot a quick . . . and terrified . . . look over his shoulder, "ARE YOU ALL RIGHT!"

PLEASE GOD LET HER BE OKAY!

As the bullet had torn through her bicep, Emily had fallen backwards with a howl and a grunt as the breath was knocked out of her. But when she heard Hotch continuing to yell her name, to ask if she was okay, she sucked in a breath as she pushed herself up.

"I think so," she gasped as she got to her knees, "it's my arm," she winced as her hand came up to press on the wound, "but I don't think it hit an artery."

The bullet was still in there though. And she could feel the blood pooling against her hand as she gently pressed down, feeling the hole. Christ . . . she was grimacing as she moved her hand down to undo her belt . . . she'd be lucky if she didn't bleed to death before this day was all over.

But after a hasty field dressing . . . during which she bit down a scream as she tightened her makeshift tourniquet . . . the blood had tapered off considerably. And as long as she didn't leave the belt on for too long, then she shouldn't suffer any additional nerve damage to her arm.

Hopefully anyway.

But . . . she started compartmentalizing her pain . . . she didn't have time to worry about that right then.

She needed to deal with Tom.

Though she desperately wanted to help the still grappling Hotch . . . even injured, the two of them together could disarm Lonnie in thirty seconds . . . Tom still had a gun. And busted face or not, he was still a very real threat to both of them.

It was actually a wonder that he hadn't taken a shot at either of them yet.

Now functioning solely on anger and adrenaline . . . fight or flight had kicked in, there was nothing like getting shot to kick start your temper again . . . Emily's good hand closed around another stone. Her head snapped up to unleash the makeshift weapon . . . but then she froze, eyes wide in astonishment at what had happened.

The bullet that had gone tearing through her arm had found a second target.

Tom.

He was screaming even louder than he had been before . . . fucking baby had been crying about his nose for so long that she hadn't even noticed the change in pitch . . . and was now holding his stomach as he writhed in agony on the ground.

It was a belly wound.

One that looked pretty serious given where it was located . . . that definitely had done some major organ damage . . . and Emily couldn't think of a nicer person for it to happen to.

Finally . . . she sucked in another ragged breath as she pushed her wet hair back off her face . . . some good luck. Not only was he seriously wounded, but he'd dropped his rifle in the mud.

But not lucky enough . . . she reminded herself as she heard Lonnie and Hotch beating the shit out of each other a few yards away . . . because the rifle was half under his body, just inches from his fingers. And if Tom was still moving, then he could still potentially pick up that weapon.

One that she couldn't safely get to right now.

So she made sure to line up her shot, aiming for his temple as she hoped to knock him out cold.

The rock went flying out of her hand and she doubled over at the rip of pain from her shoulder.

FUCK!

As Emily straightened up, still cursing and cradling her bad arm, she felt fresh blood trickling down over her hand.

She'd torn the clot. God damn it.

And as her eyes shot back to Tom again, she saw that though his brow had a new cut, he wasn't unconscious.

Just stunned.

'_NOT GOOD ENOUGH PRENTISS!' _she screamed in her head. For all that he had put them through, she wanted him to suffer.

She wanted him dead.

With that blazing thought, her fury took over. And as she saw Hotch pounding Lonnie into the ground . . . he'd clearly gotten the upper hand now . . . she rushed the supine man in front of her.

As she stumbled through the mud all she could picture was the dead girl in the road . . . then Hotch's face as he told her that the eyes and mouth had been sewn shut. And with those images driving her . . . and the thoughts of what Tom would have done to her if he'd dragged her into the woods . . . Emily was drawing her muddy boot back as she ran up.

The boot connected.

His jaw broke.

And with his fresh howls of pain filling the air, Emily felt a burst of elation as she yanked the rifle from his body and threw it over her shoulder. Then she dropped to her knees.

"Shut the fuck up," she hissed as her good hand clamped over his bloodied mouth. She wasn't sure what she was going to do to him . . . she'd never even considered killing an unarmed man before . . . but as his teeth clamped down on her hand, all thoughts of her own injuries and resulting pain were wiped from her mind.

Adrenaline was pouring through her body as her other hand came down to crunch down over his broken nose. The pain in her arm was horrendous and her control was minimal . . . the tourniquet was starting to make the whole limb feel like a dead weight . . . but she didn't need much control to simply grind the shattered bone under her palm. He began to buck, feebly trying to punch her as he moaned and sobbed. He was trying to get a breath . . . he trying to simply get away from her.

And she pictured all the of victims that he'd probably stood over. All of them with the same . . . final . . . sobs.

_Just go away. Just leave me alone._

But a man like him would never go away, never leave them alone. He would never show any mercy.

So neither would she.

She tightened the seal over his mouth with her good hand, while making a clumsy fist with her bad one to clamp down over what was left of his nose.

'_Death by suffocation,_' she thought with a bitter fury as pain rocketed down from her shoulder, '_a door number four.'_

A door that Lonnie was now knocking on instead of her.

And though she knew that she needed to stop . . . it would be enough to leave him grievously wounded to be ripped apart by the wildlife . . . she couldn't.

Her mind was white with rage. She was beyond rational thought or anything approaching human empathy. And feeling the throbbing pain of her own injuries fed her fury as she again pictured those heads on the side of the road and that woman's broken body in the street. How she must have suffered.

How they all must have suffered.

Those were not crimes that would be handled by the court . . . tears began to pour down her face as he struggled beneath her . . . NOT this time! And though Emily knew that she was going too far . . . perhaps so far that she wouldn't be able to come back again . . . it felt good to let the anger go.

To finally let it all go.

This man would finally pay for his crimes the way all of the monsters in her files should.

With his own blood.

But then she heard Hotch's ragged breath in her ear.

"Prentiss," his tone was soft as his bloodied knuckles closed around her wrist, "let him go."

"No!" she sobbed as her arms started to shake, "he . . . he . . ."

The rest of words wouldn't come . . . they were locked with the bile in her throat . . . but Hotch seemed to understand. She felt his other arm encircle her waist.

His gun pressed against her stomach.

Then he just rested his head on her good shoulder, his breath still hot and raspy in her ear.

"You'll never forgive yourself," he whispered, "now please," he tugged gently on her waist, "please Prent . . . Emily, you do for him what he would never do for you. Let him live."

Though he could have easily pulled Emily away, Hotch wanted her to make this decision for herself. To make the _choice_ to turn away from the darkness. That darkness was what Elle had stumbled into . . . and that was how he had lost her.

And that's why he needed Emily to make a different choice.

As Hotch gently tugged on her waist, Emily felt all of the fight, all of the fury . . . all of the energy . . . just drain out of her.

He could have yanked her away . . . her bloodied hands fell from Tom's face . . . but he didn't. And for that . . . for letting her come back to herself before it was too late . . . she began to weep.

"I'm sorry!" She sobbed as she fell back against his chest, "I'm sorry!"

How could she DO that? How could she come SO close?

But there was no condemnation from Hotch. He just tightened his arm around her waist as he soothed in her ear. "It's okay Prentiss, it's okay."

"But . . ."

"No buts," he cut her off as he slowly pulled her up, murmuring an apology and shifting her slightly when she gasped in pain.

He'd bumped her arm.

Once they were on their feet again, he moved her back and away from the still gasping serial killer on the ground. Then he continued whispering in her ear.

"You didn't do anything wrong Prentiss. You stopped," he turned her around, catching her eyes as he said firmly. "You stopped on your own. And that's all that matters."

That man did deserve to die . . . but they all did. All of the men and woman in their files . . . all of the atrocities that they had committed . . . they all had it coming. But unless they were in an actual life or death struggle with them, Hotch and his team had to be careful from falling over that precipice . . . from doing what he felt the universe wanted to be done.

To have those cancers eradicated from existence.

But that couldn't be their choice. Because again, then they would become Elle . . . Prosecutor, judge and executioner all rolled into one.

It's not something that Hotch had thought that he'd had to worry about with Prentiss . . . she was always so careful and deliberate in her actions . . . but now it was clear that it was something that he had to worry about with all of them.

That one day . . . his eyes burned as he tucked her against his chest . . . one moment, they would be pushed too far.

Right over the edge.

And though he'd been surprised by the level of rage Emily had been capable of tapping into, he hadn't actually been shocked by it. It was hard to be shocked by something that filled his soul as well. Though it did sadden him to think of what could have happened in her past that would bring her to the brink so quickly. His hand rubbed slowly down her back . . . it had to have been horrific. But that was a conversation . . . perhaps, if he was so inclined to continue their new bond . . . for another day.

Right now they still needed to survive this day.

And just because they now had the upper hand . . . they had all the guns . . . didn't mean that they had won this war. Not by half. Because just minutes ago these two men had possessed the upper hand.

They'd had all the guns.

Fate twisted on a dime.

So seeing that Emily was pulling herself back together . . . she was sniffling as she tried to stop crying . . . Hotch began moving their escape forward. He gave her one more supportive pat before taking his hand off of her back to pull the other Sig from his waistband.

"Here," he tucked the pistol into her good hand . . . which fortunately was also her shooting hand . . . as his eyes tracked over to the unconscious Lonnie, "he had them in his knapsack."

For Hotch's words . . . and the embrace . . . Emily was starting to feel a bit more like her old self, and a bit less like the kind of person who would murder someone in cold blood. She hoped never to feel that way again. And as her grip tightened on her weapon . . . it was undeniably wonderful to have it back . . . her watery gaze followed after Hotch's.

"Is he . . .?"

Her voice caught on the last word. She'd hate to think that Hotch was going to have to live with another death on his conscience.

Especially after he'd saved her from suffering a similar fate.

"No," Hotch quickly shook his head, "no, just unconscious."

Though Hotch couldn't deny that part of him wished that he wasn't. That darkness was easy to stumble into. Because even after Lonnie was clearly knocked cold, Hotch wanted to fool himself into thinking that he was about to wake up.

That he was still a threat.

Just three or four more direct blows to his skull probably would have finished him off.

Actually the only thing that had kept Hotch from taking those extra shots was Emily herself. Knowing that he needed to get her out of the woods had kept him focused on the task at hand.

Incapacitation rather than revenge.

So once he'd taken all the guns away from the unconscious man, he'd run over to save Emily Prentiss from making the biggest mistake of her life.

Emily's voice was small and filled with pain as she looked over the scene in front of them.

"So what do we do now?"

Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the fact that she'd been in a car accident, then had been beaten about the head and neck as a chunk of her scalp was ripped out . . . all before she got shot . . . was catching up with her.

If she could stay on her feet another ten minutes . . . she took a raspy breath . . . that would be a miracle.

"Well," Hotch let out a slow breath as he leaned down to loosen Emily's tourniquet . . . her forearm was turning white . . . "we need to get the hell out of here before the sun goes down. But," he reset the notch on her belt one looser, "I don't want to just leave them here either," his jaw clenched as his gaze snapped up to her usually pretty and now bloodied, bruised and swollen face, "they're going to pay for this."

Realizing he was letting himself get distracted again with thoughts of revenge rather than incapacitation . . . it was a bad road for both of them . . . Hotch shook his head slightly to refocus.

"Anyway," he huffed out a breath as he tipped his head towards Lonnie and tapped her shoulder, "I know that you're about ready to drop, but I just need you to keep your gun on him for a couple minutes." Hotch started to yank his dress shirt off and the buttons went flying. "I'll rip this up and we'll use some of the strips for bindings and wrap your arm with the rest. Even if it is a bit looser now, we can't leave that belt on there much longer."

Getting Emily's injuries treated was actually his first priority . . . she'd lost entirely too much blood . . . but unfortunately . . . Hotch yanked his arm out of the first sleeve . . . the Lonnie situation needed to be attended to first.

Eventually that psychopath was going to wake up.

And Hotch didn't want that happening until he was trussed up like a turkey and sliding around the bed of that rusted up truck.

So once he was down to just his undershirt, after a quick glance over to make sure Emily was still steady on her feet . . . yes, but looking much worse for the last twenty minutes of wear . . . Hotch began rapidly ripping the sleeves off of his formerly white, now filthy, dress shirt. But the rain would rinse the mud away before he tried to use it for bandages. And fortunately the material was so wet that it tore easily into strips.

Still though, it took a good minute to get the shirt torn into usable bindings. And as he hurriedly went along, Hotch started to feel a sense of panic rising up again.

For a few minutes . . . once he'd gotten their guns back and Emily away from Tom . . . he'd started to feel like his old self. Somebody who once more held a rigid control over his world.

That feeling was fading fast . . . he looked furtively over his shoulder at the shadowy woods . . . but he didn't know why.

"Do you think Lonnie's faking?"

Emily's nervous whisper put words to the emotions that Hotch couldn't place.

That was it exactly . . . Hotch's eyes popped as they shot back over to the man on the ground . . . that was the cause for his unease. The feeling that somehow Lonnie was playing them. And the fact that both he and Emily had the same thought come to them at the same time, worried Hotch immensely.

He believed in instincts . . . his eyes stayed locked on the motionless body as he hurriedly shoved the dirty strips into his pockets . . . especially with the training that they had. Their brains were constantly cataloging the world around them. Filing away little ticks, little movements.

Changes in breathing.

What other people called instincts . . . Hotch yanked his Sig back from his holster . . . he called profiling.

And right now his heart was pounding as he realized that both he and Emily were profiling the same thing.

Lonnie was awake.

* * *

_A/N 2: I do so like this story, and I do so wish I had more time to devote to working on it. Of course that's true of all of them, but particularly this one recently has been running as a little movie in my head (kind of like The Snake Pit did) but I have keep pressing 'pause' on the action because I just don't have the time to get it all down. It's annoying._

_So anyway, I gave some thought as to best moments for 'escape' and it's generally in transit. And particularly with these two, they aren't your typical kidnappees, so clearly the first moment they could make a move, they were going to take it. And there's a lot of overlapping in their reactions and thoughts here to both events from canon (losing control and killing an UNSUB, be it Elle for her reasons, or Hotch for his very different ones) and then other events later in Girl where Hotch and Emily bond over shared personality traits. Again, that's why I enjoy circling over these different universes. Having the same fixed items swirled together in totally different ways. And I think that anyone who does what they do day in and day out could potentially come to that breaking point where you could lose control and want to kill one of the monsters. Especially if it's one that just ripped out a chunk of your scalp. And yes, that's going to leave a mark. This H/P are not going to come out of this quite the same as later versions. These events are changing them both for the worse and for the better. And we'll find out in Story 2, how that plays out back in their real lives._

_And speaking of real lives, as to Hotch's immersion in his Haley life as being a fantasy, I think that was true. Him there was always so surreal as juxtaposed against him at work. And as work begins (at this point in canon) to really consume him, how could he really have been moving from that dark world where he spent most of his time to the light one where he basically just slept? I think it was a fantasy to think that he could really do that. And actually just writing that line in the story gave me a new perspective on his contribution to their marriage's downfall. It wasn't just that he was working too much, it was also his denial of the fantasy that his home life had become. He wanted it to be something that it no longer was and he tried to fool himself for too long. That's my take on it anyway :)_

_Though they have gotten the upper hand, this isn't over yet. There are a couple more twists and turns to come, but we're definitely in the thick of things now. My approach is for the next chapter to be another ginormous one (it's already started from a point where I decided to cut this one) so we can wrap this up sooner than later. _

_Again, this took lots and lots of time to pull together :) so I'd love to hear what you thought!_


	8. The Choices You Make

**Author's Note**: I've been working on a bunch of (very different) things the last couple of weeks and most of them are about ready to post. But as it was rainy and dreary here two weekends in a row, that really influenced this one getting wrapped up more quickly than the others. But there will be more things going up over the coming days. "Peppier" things :)

Here, we left them on a bit of a cliff hanger and this is a direct continuation of the scene. It is a dark and twisty world and it isn't over yet kids!

* * *

**The Choices You Make**

Hotch's jaw and trigger finger both clenched as his gaze shifted back and forth between the two men lying on the ground.

From the raspy moans to the left, Hotch knew that Tom had passed out again. And given his massive facial trauma, he was . . . for the moment . . . an unlikely threat. But even if Emily hadn't made hamburger out of both his nose and his mouth . . . essentially decimating his breathing . . . that bullet in his stomach was no decoy.

There was no doubt that he was critically wounded.

Not that Hotch was counting him out of the game. The only trustworthy serial killer was a dead one. So he still needed to be tied up before they threw him in the back of the truck . . . but that was just a precaution.

The real threat right now was Lonnie.

Hotch's eyes snapped back to the other body lying ten feet away . . . what to do about him? Was he . . . as they suspected . . . 'playing possum' as he'd accused Emily of doing?

And what to do even if he was?

Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch caught sight of Emily making some sort of gesture to him. When he spared her a glance, his eyebrow rose slightly as she mimed putting an invisible gun to her head and pulling the trigger.

Execution.

His brow darkened. Though he had still not ruled out the possibility that these men might have to die in order for them to live, Hotch had no intention of killing them in cold blood. And Emily's understandable . . . though still uncharacteristic . . . breakdown notwithstanding, he was somewhat surprised . . . and disappointed . . . that she was advocating such a course of action now. He felt a little wave of disgust.

They weren't animals.

So in response to her 'suggestion' he shot her a severe scowl and shake of his head. An action which . . . surprisingly . . . immediately resulted in her own head shake and a roll of her eyes. But before he could do more than wrinkle his brow at _her_ response . . . what the hell did that mean . . . she moved over three feet and leaned up to press her lips to his ear.

"No, not for real. Like he did to us in the truck."

Then she snapped back to attention, keeping her gun steady on their topic of discussion as she let him consider what she'd said. And he had to admit . . . what she'd said was pretty damn good. Do to Lonnie what he'd done to them in the truck.

A game of chicken to counteract his game of possum.

And as Hotch thought about it, he realized it was the only option. Really, it's not like he could just SHOOT Lonnie to see if he was actually awake. Things were bad . . . very bad . . . but still, Hotch's personal ethics had not yet devolved to that point.

He hoped not to see the day that they would.

Though as he took a step in Lonnie's direction, Hotch realized that with the other man's eyes shut, he couldn't do exactly what had been done in the van. That was a straight shot at the head. The shot Emily had seen coming.

Lonnie couldn't see anything coming.

But . . . Hotch's gaze narrowed dangerously . . . if he was conscious at all, dropping a bullet into the ground NEXT to his head . . . yeah, that'd get a reaction.

Okay . . . he did a quick ammo count as he moved five paces closer to the motionless body . . . but just one. Until they had reached civilization again . . . a process that was going to take some time even if they got their asses moving in the next five minutes . . . every bullet needed to count. Especially if Lonnie tried to take off running, which was a not unlikely scenario. And one in which . . . if it happened . . . Hotch would have no qualms at that point about taking out his kneecaps.

Cold blooded execution and defensive maiming were not on the same planet of moral offenses.

So knowing that they had no time to waste fucking around with this guy . . . the grey light was fading, the rain wasn't stopping and he desperately needed to get Emily to the hospital . . . Hotch didn't so much as blink as he fired off one round aimed a half a foot from Lonnie's head.

As the bullet drove into the ground, mud splattered up and onto Lonnie's face. And when it did he bounced off the ground like he had springs in his body . . . as they had surmised, Lonnie was most definitely awake . . . taking off at a dead run even as Hotch pulled the trigger three more times.

God DAMN he was fast!

One bullet went wide, but the other two hit their marks. One entering Lonnie's upper thigh and the other winging his bicep. And though he stumbled . . . and screamed . . . he kept on going.

FUCK!

Hotch cursed as he bolted after him. They did NOT have time for this BULLSHIT! But he couldn't very well keep wasting bullets at a moving target. Not when that target was moving as fast as this one was. He'd already cleared more than half the distance to the mine shaft.

Adrenaline had to be PULSING through his body!

Christ . . . Hotch felt a wave of panic as he slid in the mud . . . he wasn't going to be able to catch up to him in time!

And as Lonnie raced up to the darkened shaft, Hotch's heart clenched as his gun came up again. It was the only choice, he told himself, he couldn't let Lonnie get in there. That was safety for him. It would be suicide for them to follow so he'd have carte blanche to rearm himself before he came after them again.

But not only that . . . Hotch's stomach turned as he flashed on the decapitated heads by the road . . . they were holding other victims down in the shaft. So if Lonnie got in there . . . got back to his pit . . . those people would be gruesomely murdered before he and Emily could return with reinforcements. If he didn't stop Lonnie now, that blood would be on his hands.

"It's the only choice."

Those were the words that Hotch repeated to himself as he squeezed the trigger one more time. The bullet that left the gun was aimed dead center for Lonnie's back. And with a target that size . . . even with both of them sliding as their shoes slogged through the ground . . . there was no possibility of a miss.

And he didn't miss.

Lonnie yelped once . . . it was a sound like a wounded dog. And then Hotch saw the impact of the bullet propel his body forward into the shadows of the mine entrance. There he lay still.

Hotch slid to a stop in the mud, the rain beating down on his face as he looked at what he'd done. And though he knew that what he'd done was right . . . just . . . he couldn't deny the overwhelming horror and disgust at what he'd done either. He'd shot a man in the back.

Like a coward.

'_No time for that right now Aaron_,' Hotch tried to shake it off as he took a breath and slowly moved forward, _'you can hate yourself later. There are still things to be done._'

Though he had tried not to him dead center . . . severing a man's spinal cord wasn't on his list of life goals . . . it was unclear exactly where the bullet had entered. With the rain soaking into Lonnie's shirt, all Hotch could tell from the dark patches of blue cloth was that there was definitely blood mixed in there.

Still though, he was cautious as he approached, his finger again pressed against the trigger of his pistol. But this time there was no movement. As far as Hotch could tell . . . he took another step as his gaze focused on Lonnie's mid-section . . . no breathing either. His teeth sunk into his lip.

He was just still.

And a little part of Hotch . . . the part that had seen too much violence and too little kindness of the world . . . wanted to weep. It didn't matter if the life lost wasn't worth saving . . . it still wasn't his to take. But again, there was no time for regret or second guessing. He'd made a decision . . . a chain of them really . . . and these were the consequences of those decisions.

A man was dead.

'_Are you sure?'_

The little voice that came to him . . . his conscience . . . was the same one that had spoken to him back on the road. The one that wouldn't let him leave that woman without checking her pulse. And he tried to himself that that was different . . . that she was a victim . . . _his_ victim . . . and that this was an UNSUB, but he knew in his heart that it didn't matter.

Because once he started making those distinctions . . . that one life was worth less than another . . . then he became no better than the people that he hunted. So for that reason alone . . . to keep what little moral ground he had left . . . Hotch knew that he had to check Lonnie's pulse.

But of course that meant that he had to step into the opening of the shaft.

And though both UNSUBs were down . . . the hairs on the back of Hotch's neck began to stand up . . . for some reason that just didn't seem like a good idea. Not at all. Still though . . . Hotch spared a quick glance over his shoulder to see Emily watching him . . . he'd already come this far.

What was another eight feet?

So he ignored the pull in his gut . . . the sensation that he and Emily had already been separated for too long, and that he should just go back . . . and moved forward instead.

He just had to make sure that Lonnie was dead.

It would only take a second.

/*/*/*/*/*/

Emily's eyes popped in horror as she watched Hotch suddenly begin moving towards the shadows of the mine entrance.

Where the HELL was he going?

"HOTCH!" She screamed as she took two steps forward. "WHAT ARE YOU _DOING_!"

For Christ's sake he'd just put a BULLET in the guy's back from ten feet away! And that was the _third_ one that he'd taken. Not to mention the beating. Even if Lonnie wasn't dead yet, he was definitely DOWN!

Of course she understood the reason that Hotch had to shoot him . . . he couldn't let him get into the shaft and kill their remaining hostages . . . but it was clear that Lonnie was out of it now as well as Tom was.

Neither one of them possessed the physical capability to go on a killing spree.

But more to the point, neither she nor Hotch were in any position to go "rescuing" anyone. As much as she hated the thought of leaving those people down there for ANY length of time, it had to be done. They would come back after they'd found lights and backup. And . . . her arm ached in the cold rain . . . medical attention.

So what the hell was he thinking going in there now? Stepping that close to the shaft just wasn't safe.

The thought came to Emily, and then her eyes widened as something caught her attention.

Movement.

Her heart started galloping in her chest.

OH JESUS NO!

"HOTCH! HOTCH! **BEHIND** YOU!"

A burst of adrenaline shot through Emily's body as she took off at a run, still screaming over and over, "LOOK BEHIND YOU! BEHIND YOU!"

And even as she started to close the distance . . . a good thirty yards . . . Emily could see Hotch whirling around to face the shadow coming up from the depths of the mine shaft. Then her heart skipped a full beat when she saw an object suddenly crack across Hotch's skull.

It might have been some kind of mining equipment . . . something big . . . but it either way it had done the job. And she screamed in fury as Hotch dropped like a lead weight. And then the shadow . . . she could barely make out the figure of a man . . . grabbed him by the arm.

And then he was dragging him farther inside the shaft . . . dragging him farther away.

From her.

"YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!"

The words echoed in the woods as Emily fired over and over again at the shadow now scuttling back from the grey area by the opening and into the pitch darkness behind him. With each bullet fired she aimed high . . . not only to avoid hitting Hotch . . . but she was also praying to every God that she could think of to just let her get one clean head shot. Just one shot that would stop him cold and end this new phase to their nightmare.

But it wasn't to be.

Hotch suddenly disappeared into the black. And though her every instinct was to race in after him, she knew that would be signing their death warrants.

Whoever had just grabbed him . . . a third UNSUB in this fucked up game . . . would be waiting for her. Clearly his eyes were acclimated to the darkness, so he'd most likely take her out as fast as he had Hotch.

With just one blow.

So though it broke her heart to let him go . . . she did. With a howl of rage she stopped running and ducked to the side of the shaft so as not to make a target of herself.

Her thoughts were maniacally racing, her arm was throbbing, her head was bleeding again . . . she could feel the warm trickle mixing with the cold rain . . . and the tears burning her eyes were being fed by a nearly overwhelming panic. Hotch was gone.

And she didn't know how the hell she was going to get him back.

The terror that she'd felt earlier when Tom tried to drag her away, came flooding over her again. But this wasn't fear for what would happen to her . . . now she wasn't the one in mortal danger. Her fear was for the man who had hung onto her for dear life.

For the man who had saved her.

And now somehow . . . even with the tattered wet raggedy doll that she had become over the last hours . . . she needed to pay back that debt.

Okay . . . she bent over, taking a ragged breath as she tried to push down the fear and the panic to think rationally . . . first things first. Her jaw set as her eyes snapped to the body lying on the ground ahead of her.

Lonnie.

Still not moving, and his "friend" had left him to take Hotch instead. Well . . . she thought with disgust . . . that's what you get for being buddies with a serial killer.

No loyalty.

But she knew that she couldn't leave him there. It was bad enough that Tom was still alive back up the trail. There was no way in hell that she was climbing down into a mine shaft with . . . potentially . . . two serial killers behind her.

She might as well blow her brains out now.

Of course . . . she bit her lip . . . Lonnie could be dead already. But time was passing . . . at least twenty seconds now since Hotch had been taken . . . so she knew that there was only one option left to her now. Well . . . she swallowed hard as she slowly straightened and took aim at the prone body . . . two actually. But Hotch's earlier pleas for her to stop . . . to not kill Tom . . . were still ringing in her ears.

And she wouldn't betray him now.

So rather than putting a bullet into Lonnie's head . . . the one sure fire way to end that cluster . . . she took a breath . . . and then took two quick shots.

She blew out both of his knees.

It was a horrible thing to do . . . but there were only horrible choices left. But at least she hadn't blown his brains out.

Small offerings to the gods today.

Lonnie was screeching and sobbing . . . apparently that had been another game of possum . . . as she jumped back to the side again to check her ammo. Her regret for what she'd done to him was abstract . . . it was wrong . . . but it didn't matter that it was wrong. Those were concerns for a civilized world.

And she was very far from anything approaching civilization.

All that mattered . . . all the choices she made . . . they were to get her back to Hotch. But unfortunately . . . she checked the magazine on her Sig . . . she only had four bullets left. Not exactly ideal for a rescue mission. She still had Tom's rifle on her shoulder, but that wasn't really a close quarters weapon. Certainly not in the dark.

And not only that . . . she checked off another mental box in the Con column . . . she didn't have a God damn flash light! So how the HELL was she going to chase Hotch down a freaking mine shaft with no lights and crap weaponry?

Oh . . . her eyes suddenly popped as her head snapped up . . . Lonnie's bag! Hotch had pulled their guns out of it, but clearly that wasn't why he'd been carrying it around to start.

He had to be keeping his own supplies in there.

And that meant . . . she spun around and broke into a run . . . maybe a flashlight!

It took her only fifteen or twenty seconds to get back to where she'd left Tom . . . but all of those seconds were adding up. Too many of them now. So she wasted no more time as she dropped down to her knees to dig one handed through the leather satchel that Hotch had left in the mud.

YES!

A burst of elation filled her as she yanked out a Mag light from the depths. She tucked it under her arm before she dove back into the bag again.

. . . Canteen

. . . Some kind of disgusting dried meat

. . . Bloody hunting knife

. . . Cartridges!

Excellent! She pulled out a handful and shoved them into first one pocket . . . and then the other. Then she pulled out the knife . . . wiped it off as best she could on her wet pants . . . and tucked it into the outside flap of the bag. If she had a sheath she'd tuck it into her boot, but as it was it would cut her leg to the bone.

Which meant as weapons went . . . she stood up, throwing the bag over her good shoulder as she did so . . . it was a good one.

As she came to her feet, Emily's eyes snapped over to check Tom. She nearly jumped backwards when she saw that he was staring at her.

Though his face was broken, it looked like he was trying to grin.

It was horrible.

"Our daddy's going to be carving your man into pieces."

The words were choked and garbled . . . hard to talk with a broken jaw . . . but she understood him just fine all the same. And she was horrified by the implications of what he'd said.

Daddy.

Lonnie and Tom were brothers. That explained the alpha dynamic and Tom's clear . . . yet unusual . . . resentment of Lonnie. It wasn't just a normal UNSUB 'follow the leader' relationship. It was sibling rivalry.

And Tom was the oldest.

Oh Christ . . . a fresh bolt of fear shot through Emily's heart . . . Hotch had just been dragged off by the creature that had created these monsters. And he had likely seen what Hotch had done to his boy.

He'd be looking to even the score.

Though she was nearly drowning in panic and fear, Emily kept her poker face firmly intact on as she tucked her sig into her holster and slid the Mag from under her arm and into her free hand. Then she turned to face down Tom.

"My partner is stronger than your father," she said flatly, "he'll survive because we deal with your kind every God damn day of our lives," her arm came back, "and we play to win."

And with that she bashed in what was left of Tom' face.

She knocked him cold. Then she did the same thing she had done to Lonnie moments earlier . . . took out his knees.

Though this time she needed to save her bullets, so she did it with just the butt of the flashlight. It was heavy enough . . . with a few poundings . . . to break the caps though. And that's all she needed.

Him completely immobilized.

At that point . . . the point where she was again pulverizing a man's bones into shards . . . Emily knew that she had crossed another line. But she'd deal with that later. She just had to _get_ to later to hate herself properly. Right now there was no time for the finer points of morality. She was nearing the point of physical collapse. The only thing keeping her on her feet was adrenaline and the fear of what 'daddy' would do to Hotch if he got the chance. And that was enough to justify what she had done to these terrible men.

That was enough to keep her going.

So she slipped the flashlight to her bad hand . . . all she had to do was keep a reasonable grip . . . and took her gun out of her holster.

Then . . . with both mud and blood splattered all over her rain soaked clothes . . . she started running back to the shaft.

'_Time to go hunting.'_

* * *

_A/N 2: You didn't really think I was going to set up a big scary killing ground in an abandoned mine shaft and then not even take a peek down there, did you? :) Come on! _

_If you read The Snake Pit, you can see some parallels here. On purpose :) I find the idea of being stuck underground . . . in the darkness . . . just horrible. On a very basic, relatable level, I think that regardless of your personal phobias, that's a bad dream that anybody can appreciate. But Snake Pit is over, so I need to work out my own mental crap somehow. You guys are unfortunately along for the ride! :)_

_Given the extreme remoteness of the area, it seemed unlikely that two incredibly disturbed individuals would just happen to hook up and decide to kill lots of people in totally horrible ways. But if it was a family . . . well, the family that kills together, yada yada.  
_

_Again, not planning to make this M, but you can see from the choices that Hotch and Emily have taken so far, this world is a moral quagmire. But you got to do what you got to do. This story is about the decisions you make and the places they take you. And that's not just the physical places, but the mental ones as well. This trip to hell is going to F them up. _

_And I also wanted to turn the tables and put Emily into the hero role here where she has to go after Hotch. It was a little switch up. _

_Anyway, I had hoped to get 2 things finished tonight but I'm exhausted so, bedtime. If I don't have to work too late tomorrow then maybe I can get the next story cleaned up._


	9. The Devil You Don't Know

**Author's Note**: This one is SO different than my other post this weekend, it's almost like a personality switch :)

Just some FYI stuff: Though I did do some research for this chapter, I specifically chose not to really pick an exact 'type' of mine that we're dealing with here. You know, copper, limestone, salt, whatever. Because reading up, I was reminded that they all have very unique elements to them. And if I'd decided to pick one, then I'd had to have made sure it fit, first for the region of the country that they're in, and second, then I'd have to make sure that all of the physical descriptions in the articles I read, accurately matched up to the images of what I would be describing in the upcoming scenes. But really, given that Hotch and Emily have no idea what was being mined in this area, they would be just as ignorant as the rest of us about what they were seeing!

So, suffice it to say, the mine is old, it is abandoned, and it is creepy as hell. But actually if you'd like to see some pics on mines I was using for inspiration, they're on my Tumblr. I included the pictures with the posting announcement.

And with that . . . on with the show!

Now we open as we left, with Emily…the Self Rescuing, _Prince_ Rescuing, Gun Shot and Bloodied, Princess :)

**WARNING**: Ugliness and bad language ahead. It's a bad day in the Enchanted Forest.

**Other Accounts:**

_**Twitter: ffsienna27 **__– For story announcements, etc. If the alerts, (or the site), are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. There's also random randomness that is my brain._

_**Tumblr: sienna27 **__– More randomness._

* * *

**Prompt Set #18 - January 2012**

Author: Stewart O'Nan

Title Challenge: Emily Alone

* * *

**The Devil You Don't Know**

Emily's heart was pounding in her chest . . . the rhythm had synched up with the blood pounding in her ears.

There was a cold rain drizzling down her right arm, which was freezing her skin. That was while the rest of her body was relatively dry pinned flat against the side of the moldy wooden beams lining the entrance to the mine. Her Sig was in one hand . . . the still darkened flashlight was in the other.

The pistol was a comfort. A reminder of a world far away.

One where she still held some control over her life.

But the flashlight . . . Emily's jaw clenched as she looked down at it . . . that was causing her a real problem right now. There was no comfort there.

Because the flashlight had to be turned on.

There was no way around it. No way to move forward without it. But unfortunately she had a very clear . . . very _horrifying_ . . . image in her mind of what would happen the second after the switch was flicked. A shotgun shell would come roaring up out of the dark.

That shell would take her head off.

And the image was SO clear in her mind . . . so perfectly, profilery logical . . . that it had planted her boots in the mud. She'd been standing there at least thirty, maybe even sixty seconds.

Of course she knew that she had to take that next step forward. She had to go find Hotch. And as she felt her eyes starting to burn with panic and self-loathing, she knew that she had to go find him RIGHT now! Now, before any more time was lost.

Because too much time had been lost already.

But still . . . even knowing these facts, knowing that every second that she was wasting, could be a second that Hotch was being tortured . . . she couldn't move. And it wasn't fear for her own safety that was freezing her to the ground . . . she'd moved beyond considerations of self the second that she'd chosen to run after Hotch rather than run down the mountain . . . it was that she was terrified of that image in her mind.

Because if she did get her head blown clean off walking over this threshold . . . then Hotch wouldn't just be tortured. Hotch would be dead.

_Everyone, _would be dead.

Which was why . . . though she felt like she was in full fight or flight mode, the chemicals were SURGING through her body . . . she was standing there motionless. Useless.

Pathetic.

Yes . . . she thought bitterly . . . pathetic. That about sums it up.

But as she suddenly flashed on Hotch screaming down in the dark, Emily knew that it was past time to shake this shit off. Because if she didn't . . . she bit her lip . . . then she was betraying his trust in her as his partner. She'd be letting him down.

Letting him die.

And that just could NOT happen. Not if she was alive to stop it.

And really . . . she started mentally regrouping . . . it just wasn't like her to get bogged down in whatifs like this. Usually . . . if someone else's life was in danger . . . she just charged forward like a God damn bull in a china shop.

Consequences be damned.

And that . . . she took a shallow breath . . . was what she needed to do now.

Damn the consequences.

Because worrying about getting her head blown off was . . . she reminded herself . . . pointless. Pretty much all worrying was pointless when you came right down to it. Things happened or they didn't.

That was life.

And very little of life . . . especially as it related to the happenings around her on this horrendous day . . . did she have much control over. All she could do now was stay low . . . she took another small breath of the dank air . . . stay frosty, and pray for a bit of grace from whoever was running the show upstairs.

And though she was starting to feel renewed confidence in her next steps . . . in actually _taking_, next steps . . . she still wanted SO badly to rush in without turning the God damn flashlight on.

She just wanted to see if her eyes would adjust.

But in her heart she knew that was the _one _decision, that would be suicidal.

The shaft in front of her was pitch.

And she wasn't a frigging cat. So there was no way that she'd be able to discern enough light in that level of darkness, to maneuver more than ten feet without killing herself. Because _killing_ herself . . . not just getting herself _killed_ . . . was definitely ranking pretty high on her secondary considerations at the moment.

Mines . . . most especially abandoned ones in the shit condition that this one clearly was . . . didn't need to have sociopaths and homemade torture chambers installed in order to kill you.

They were death traps all on their own.

So she had to go nice and easy . . . her index finger began to slowly slide down the smooth surface of the flashlight . . . and just pray that she didn't accidentally trigger a collapse of any of the shaft walls. Or maybe trip and fall onto something with a raggedy . . . eye gouging . . . point on it.

Because if either of those things happened . . . her jaw clenched . . . that was going to majorly suck.

So with these new, completely unhelpful, eye gouging, crush injury images nor boring into the forefront of her brain . . . they were joining all of the other completely unhelpful images in there, like her head being blown off, or Hotch being inserted into the next human totem pole . . . Emily sent up one final, desperate, plea to the universe.

It was a plea to get Hotch back. And it was a plea to let them get home in one piece.

And then she clicked on the light.

To her shock . . . truly . . . her head remained attached to her shoulders. And it remained there as she took her first tentative . . . and breathless . . . steps into the entrance of hell.

It seemed, as she stumbled along the ankle twisting ground, that the universe had granted at least part of her fist wish. 'Daddy UNSUB' had apparently decided not to hang around the entrance waiting to take her head off.

And though the granting of that tiny wish was good for her, Emily's stomach still churned as she continued slowly edging her way forward into the darkness. Because she knew in her heart that what was good for her, was not good for Hotch.

Not good at all.

That meant that he was . . . and had been . . . the subject of the UNSUB's undivided attention since he'd been dragged off into this netherworld.

And that was going on a solid six or seven minutes now.

And a lot of bad shit can happen in seven minutes. Limbs can be lopped off. Mouths can be stitched up.

Eyes can be . . .

Suddenly Emily stopped short, mentally pressing pause on the litany of horrors that had started playing in the forefront of her brain. Because a new . . . Technicolor . . . horror, had just caught her attention. One that was sending her heart rate jack rabbiting.

It was a smear of fresh blood on a jagged rock just ahead of her.

There was hair stuck in the blood.

Black hair.

Hotch's hair.

And even as she made herself consciously look away from that bloodied rock . . . she couldn't focus on that and not go nuts . . . Emily's eyes started to tear up as she began walking again. Because the profiler part of her brain hadn't received the message to let that image go.

So the profiler part of her brain was reconstructing the scene.

And it was showing her . . . though she so desperately didn't want to see it . . . the moment that Hotch had started to wake up after the first blow. He'd started to wake up, and he realized that he was being dragged along the ground.

Dragged down into the pit.

And then Hotch being Hotch . . . he'd started to struggle. So the UNSUB . . . Emily's jaw began to grind as another blood stain was caught in the light . . . had picked up the handiest weapon . . . the one poised to do the most damage . . . and smashed him over the head again.

This time hard enough to draw blood.

And the only thing that was keeping Emily from a full blown freak out at this development . . . i.e. racing forward down the shaft like a mad woman while screaming Hotch's name . . . was the lack of brain matter present with the blood and matted hair.

Brain matter would have meant that he was already dead or dying.

Right now . . . as far as she knew . . . he was just hurt.

Of course . . . she felt a little flicker of anger beginning to drive her steps . . . it wasn't _just _that he was hurt. That would be bad enough in and of itself. But the fact of the matter was that he was MORE hurt than the last time that she'd seen him. And even without brain matter present to terrify her, that image of him _more_ hurt suddenly became so much worse in her mind.

Because as the reality of him suffering that second below . . . one that might have rendered him completely incapable of defending himself . . . finally sunk in, that was enough for Emily to shake off her remaining reticence about taking a wrong step, or turning the wrong corner.

It was time to charge the china shop.

Because now she was just pissed. And pissed was good.

Pissed would keep her going where worrying slowed her down.

So with that mindset, she pushed aside all thoughts of her own physical pain and creeping exhaustion, to begin racing double time . . . half hunched over . . . through the dank, narrow shaft.

Cobwebs were getting caught in her hair, and she was stumbling over rocks and rotted beams and chunks of God knows what else lying on the dirt floor, but still she kept going as fast as she could given her injuries.

But of course it only took a minute for the sweat to begin to pour down, while her lungs began to scream in agony.

The air was disgustingly hot and moist, and it was getting harder to breath the deeper she went into the ground. Of course the blood loss from the gunshot and her head wounds, wasn't helping anything either.

She felt dizzy and nauseous.

But she just had to stay conscious . . . alive . . . long enough to get Hotch out. She could collapse . . . or drop dead . . . later.

When she had the time for it.

So to move her attention away from her own deteriorating physical condition . . . she wasn't going to be able to keep up this speed for much longer . . . Emily made herself focus in on the glow of the light bouncing around the shaft.

But given what she could see, it would almost be better . . . for her mental health anyway . . . if she was running in the dark.

Because the mental image she was getting on the size of the spiders needed to create the giant webs that were catching in her hair, was NOT something that she needed to be thinking about. Nor were the patches of furry green and white mold growing on the rotting beams holding up the tunnel.

Just how long had the mold been growing . . . and how long had the beams been rotting?

And was the mold toxic? And were the beams on the verge of collapse?

More questions she didn't want answers to.

And then . . . she bit back a shudder . . . there were the millipedes.

They were enormous with their thousands of little legs . . . and they were EVERYWHERE! More of them than she could count, just fleeing wherever the light hit them.

And the light wasn't just hitting them on the dirt walls. She could hear them crunching beneath her muddy boots as they pounded down over and over onto the earth beneath her feet.

The place . . . even without the psychopath waiting down in the bowels . . . was something out of a nightmare.

Which was why it was all the more horrifying when Emily suddenly felt herself stumble over an uneven patch of ground.

There was only a split second to react . . . and though ordinarily she'd put her hands out to brace herself and break her fall . . . her hands were full.

And she needed both the gun and the light to stay alive.

So she ended up falling flat on her face, skinning both her nose and her knees as she hit the ground with an 'oomph' as the wind was knocked out of her.

As she lay there for a moment sucking in tiny ragged breaths, the insects began to swarm over her hands and head. She nearly screamed as she felt the little whisper of hundreds of tiny feet moving over her skin.

And though she wished desperately that she was well enough to jump back to her feet . . . she wasn't.

That was Emily of yesterday.

For Emily of today, it was a slow . . . agonizing . . . process as she inched her way up and onto her knees. And then as she began frantically shaking the creepy crawlies out of her hair and off of her skin, she felt a fresh trickle of blood begin running down her left arm.

She'd ripped the clot of her gunshot again.

FUCK!

Hot, salty tears . . . ones that she'd been fighting since she hit the ground . . . began to pool in her eyes. They weren't born of pain . . . though there was plenty of that to go around . . . they came of frustration and anger. Why couldn't she catch a fucking BREAK?

Why the hell was this happening to them? They were good people, they did good work.

They did God's work.

Truly. Her team was on the side of the angels. So in the name of all that was HOLY, why were they being punished so VISCIOUSLY for it!

Really . . . she choked back a sob . . . how the hell was she going to save Hotch, if couldn't stop herself from bleeding to death just getting from Point A to Point B?

For a split second Emily allowed herself to wallow in that self-pity . . . as though anyone, good or bad deserved to have this nightmare thrust upon them . . . but then she heard a noise echo from far up ahead. Her head snapped back as she began rapidly blinking the tears away.

That had sounded like a scream.

OH SHIT! HOTCH!

She had no way of knowing if it was him . . . she'd never in her life heard, or could have imagined . . . the sound of that man screaming in agony. But she knew that everyone had their breaking point, and he was the freshest body to be brought into the slaughterhouse.

And that image . . . of what could be happening to him in that moment . . . was enough motivation to allow her to climb back to her feet.

Her whole body was throbbing in pain . . . and her shoulder was definitely still bleeding . . . but instead of worrying about it, or trying to assess her own medical needs, she just took a breath and said "fuck it all."

And then she began running flat out again.

She wasn't moving as fast as she had been before . . . she wasn't physically capable of that speed any longer . . . but she still had a decent clip going.

Close to double time.

Of course she was moving on nothing but adrenaline. Her body was otherwise spent. And if the UNSUB was waiting for her up ahead . . . waiting to spring a trap . . . so be it.

She'd almost prefer it.

Because she was making plans for 'Daddy UNSUB.' Big plans. She was going to bash in his face and blow out his knees, just as she had his sons.

And then as he writhed screaming on the ground . . . her teeth ground together as a fresh burst of rage filled then . . . then she'd club him in the skull with the butt of his son's rifle.

And then she was going to leave him down to rot in his God awful pit.

And she was going to do all of those terrible things for two reasons. One, because he had raised those monsters that she'd left drowning in the mud. And two . . . she felt a stab of pain in her chest . . . he was going to suffer for whatever he had done to Hotch.

Because even if that wasn't him screaming, she knew that the fall . . . and the subsequent slowing of her speed . . . had cost her too much time.

Cost _Hotch_, too much time.

As much as the thought sickened her, she knew in her bones that by the time she found her boss, more would have happened to him than just a second blow to the skull.

A lot more.

Because Daddy UNSUB was looking for vengeance. And based on the genetic pool that Emily had encountered so far that day, she didn't think that anyone in this family would go with the 'best served cold' variety.

He'd be taking his pound of flesh.

Possibly . . . her eyes started to blur with fresh tears . . . quite literally.

But what Daddy UNSUB didn't know . . . Emily felt another burst of rage clear her vision . . . was that today he was going to meet his fucking match. Because if he had done just ONE of the horrible things to Hotch that she was terrified that he had done to him, then she was doing a hell of a lot more than just paralyze the fucker.

No, if he'd touched Hotch, then the next time Daddy met his sons, it was going to be in hell.

And not the one of their own making.

Though Emily was getting completely immersed in thoughts of vengeance . . . it was much better than focusing in on the insects and mold again . . . she wasn't so distracted that she had lost any awareness of her physical surroundings. And feeling a sudden . . . though faint . . . wave of warm air smack her in the face . . . she stopped short, eyes wide as she tried to suck in a ragged breath.

What the hell was that?

Feeling a new emotion start to creep up . . . anticipation, this might be a break . . . Emily tried to get her panting under control as she raised both her pistol and the flashlight straight out in front of her.

She was trying to see where the warm air was coming from.

And just in case it was coming from an ACTUAL demon that had crawled up from the pit . . . at this point she wouldn't be surprised by anything she found down this nightmarish rabbit hole . . . she was also trying to be ready to put three in it's chest.

But even as she took a few cautious steps forward . . . she couldn't see anything.

Demon or otherwise.

And it ended up taking another seven slow and tentative paces, before she figured out what was happening. Where the air was coming from.

There was a split in the tunnel.

One side of it branched to the left . . . that was the side that seemed to be blowing the warm air . . . and the other side was branching right. The air on the right . . . her brow wrinkled . . . appeared to be somewhat cooler.

Though it was hard to tell that distinction for sure, because . . . at the moment . . . the air from both tunnels was momentarily still.

And though Emily had expected that she was going to need to take a few turns before she found Hotch . . . nothing ever ran in a straight point from A to Z, especially a fricking mine shaft . . . to her growing horror, she realized that she had no idea WHICH way to go!

There weren't any footprints, or drag marks or blood stains which would indicate one turn was any better choice than the other.

Both entrances were covered in the expected rocks and bugs.

So her now wild eyes began snapping desperately back and forth between the two openings.

Well FUCK! Which ONE?

'_Just THINK Emily think!'_ She tried to head off her rising panic, 'there has to be SOMETHING!'

Okay, okay . . . her brain began cataloguing every rock and crevice and spider web in front of her . . . something. Find _something_.

There's always something.

Just then a gust of warm air blew out of the left shaft. This time Emily was so close to it that her nose wrinkled in disgust.

And then heart started racing again.

_That_ was her something! Because that wasn't just air, now that she was close she could discern a faint smell to it. It was cloying and sickeningly sweet.

Decay.

That way was The Pit . . . she ducked down to flash her light through the opening on the left . . . she was sure of it!

This was the entrance to hell. Because if hell had a smell . . . she took a cautious step into the faintly putrid tunnel . . . it sure as FUCK was going to be rotting flesh!

And though she wanted to keep going at her earlier clip . . . now she was getting close . . . Emily's adrenaline burst had started to fade. But also, she knew that now was the time to show more caution.

More restraint.

Because now is where a trap would be set.

But not only that . . . she began moving slowly forward, her eyes bouncing everywhere the light could go . . . there were possibly other forks off of this shaft. Of course she wasn't an expert on tunnel mining, but she did have enough general knowledge to know that back in the day, they generally tended to criss cross the shafts all over the place.

That's why the damn things had always collapsed in on themselves.

So while Emily continued her cautious steps forward while mentally preparing herself for a trap . . . or another tunnel to suddenly pop up like a new page in a Choose Your Own Adventure written by Satan himself . . . she forgot to prepare herself for other things.

Things like they'd seen out in the world.

And that was a serious fuck up on her part. Because she hadn't gone more than ten feet down . . . there was definitely a sharper decline in the path here than there had been on the main shaft . . . before one of the family's grotesque 'sculptures' suddenly appeared in the beam of the light.

This one was the head of a Rottweiler, sewn onto the body of a man.

She nearly screamed.

FUCK!

For a moment she stood there literally quaking in her boots . . . the light bouncing in nearly spastic swirls over this new abomination . . . as she tried to get her shit back together again.

Though both of the poor creatures were dead, the thing that they'd become was absolutely horrifying! And the stench . . . she raised her pistol hand to her mouth . . . dear God it was horrendous.

It was taking everything in her not to throw up.

Probably the only thing that kept her from actually getting sick, was pure will power. The knowledge that if she lost any more fluids, she was definitely going to pass out.

And this was NOT the place to pass out!

So after giving herself a moment to pull the Agent Prentiss armor back firmly into place . . . that hard ass bitch was the only thing keeping her going at the moment . . . Emily ground her teeth, and started moving slowly forward again.

'_It's just like a fun house,'_ she started telling herself, _'that's all it is Emily. A fun house. Things are going to pop out in front of you. They're going to look like monsters. But the monsters aren't real. _

_So don't react.'_

Right . . . she breathed in the slightly less disgusting air beyond the hybrid statue . . . don't react. Well, react if the monster was MOVING, but otherwise . . . she slowly exhaled . . . just keep it together.

And that approach worked for another fifteen yards. That section of the tunnel was fairly clear . . . though again, tilting rapidly downward . . . but then another figure appeared in the beam of the light.

Again she stopped short, though this time . . . when she focused in on the body . . . a sob ripped through her chest.

OH GOD!

It was Hotch.

He was hanging from a section of cross beams, his arms stretched out above him like some hideous mockery of a crucifix.

Feeling the waves of grief and horror washing over her in equal parts, Emily's whole body started to shake again . . . his shirt was splattered in gore. There was blood everywhere she looked.

It was even dripping onto the dirt.

And the skin on his forearms looked shredded . . . probably from being dragged along the ground.

And his head, God . . . Emily's tears began to spill over as she rushed forward . . . it was just lolling on his chest.

Like a broken rag doll.

_Please God, please! Please don't let him be dead! Please! Please! Please!_

Over and over, Emily pleaded with God as she ran the distance of the light. And when she finally reached this man that she hadn't truly believed could be broken . . . she tucked the flashlight under arm so she could splay her fingers out flat. Then she pressed her palm against the blood soaked shirt sticking to his chest.

She nearly sobbed in relief . . . his heart was still beating.

THANK YOU GOD!

"Hotch," she whispered tearfully while gently patting his chest, "I'm going to get you down now, okay? Can you hear me? Hotch, can you hear me?"

When he didn't respond, Emily moved her hand up to lift his head from his chest. And then his face came into view.

And that's when she began to scream.

* * *

_A/N 2: Ah! Oh my God! What's happened to Hotch's face? We'll find out soon :) I'm trying to bang out a draft of the next chapter over the coming week.  
_

_But it just wasn't realistic for Emily to catch up before something bad had happened to him. Really, if you're a freako mountain dwelling/mine dwelling serial killer who just saw this dude kick your freako mountain dwelling/mine dwelling serial killing kids asses, you're going to start taking your vengeance sooner than later. _

_I tweeted at some point over the last few weeks (while writing this chapter) that it felt kind of 'good' to be kicking Hotch's ass a bit in a couple of stories. Not because I'm a sadistic bitch :) but just that Em's taken her share of lumps in my stories (as broad ranging arcs, plus I've "given" her cancer more than once now) so it's good to have an opportunity to even things out a bit with Hotch taking the worst of it. For now ;-)_

_I really do enjoy writing Emily in this bloodied and broken anti-heroine mode. Because it's not whether you trip and fall to your knees and start crying, it's whether you can get back up again that counts. Especially if you're getting back up not to save yourself, but to save someone else. That's a demonstration of true character, that is really interesting to write. You know portraying someone's innate goodness solely by actions and not words._

_Given how deep down they're going, I wasn't sure if rats would be 'native,' which is why I didn't include any running around in there when she fell down. Though I saw millipedes (the bane of my personal existence) being quite prevalent given how they turn up in every block of dirt you kick off the ground._

_And the inspiration for THAT scene, was from Temple of Doom. When Kate Capshaw is trying to get Indy and Short Round out of the trapdoor room. Yuck._

_I'm on the cusp as to whether I should up this to an M rating. Usually I have a pretty good feel for whether it should get kicked up, but I'm kind of on the fence. It's got some bad language, and it's got some icky stuff, but it's not ALL bad language and icky stuff. There are many chapters of none of that. And I don't want to put new people off taking a chance reading it solely for what's happening now. You know some folks just don't read M on principle, which I respect, but don't want to mislabel to be THAT over cautious. I've written straight horror, and in my gut I don't see this AS straight horror, so I'm kind of feeling right now that as long as the chapter has a warning on it, that I could leave it as 'strong' T. But if anyone has an opinion, if they think it's time, just let me know. I can be easily swayed at this point :) Or who knows, maybe when I get the next one pulled together I might be like 'oh yeah, now it's time!' :)_

_So hope you liked it! And thank you all for past and future feedback :)_


	10. UnGodly Acts

**Author's Note:** I'm back. Finally. Been a bit sick'ish, allergies, yada yada . . . on with the show.

And as to whether it's now M, it is. I do so hate indecisiveness in all its incarnations, so I said to myself, 'just make a damn decision already jackass!' And there we were, rating upgraded! :) I still stand by my assessment of this M tale being overall somewhat "milder" than my previous Ms, but I guess it's all a sliding scale of disturbing crap. And this particular chapter ranks its disturbing crap based on imagery and language.

And FYI, the beginning here is going to upset you. Know that. So scrunch your little faces up, and then please, keep reading :)

Continuing from Emily screaming like a banshee.

**Other Accounts:**

_**Twitter: ffsienna27 **__– For story announcements, etc. If the alerts, (or the site), are down, this is a backup to find out what's going on for postings. There's also some random randomness that is my brain._

_**Tumblr: sienna27 **__– More randomness._

* * *

**Ungodly Acts**

Emily was still screaming as she stumbled backwards away from Hotch's dangling body.

DEAR CHRIST! WHAT THE **FUCK** DID THAT MONSTER **DO** TO HIM!

The words were as much a scream in her mind as the sound that was coming from her larynx. And though she was on the verge of a full blown crack up . . . it was impossible to look at that abomination and not feel her sanity slip . . . the little part of Emily's brain still functioning rationally, knew that she needed to get her shit together.

Now.

And so her hand came flying up to cut off the terrified shriek that was echoing through the tunnels. Her screams had been giving away not only her position, but also her state of being.

One of abject terror.

And though her hand was shaking violently . . . her whole body was shaking violently . . . Emily bit down hard on her fist, hard enough to draw blood, as she tried desperately to dig down into her dwindling reserves of strength.

'_GET IT __**TOGETHER**__ PRENTISS!' _She screamed in her head,_ 'WE HAVE NO TIME FOR THIS SHIT! HOTCH NEEDS YOU!'_

Right, right . . . Emily repeated over and over to herself as the coppery taste filled her mouth . . . Hotch needed her. Hotch needed her. _He_ needed her, so _she_ needed to get it together. Otherwise she was letting him down.

Again.

With that final thought . . . one of self-loathing . . . Emily's arm fell down to hang limply at her side. A moment later her fingers tightened around the flashlight as she sucked in a ragged breath. And then she sucked in another breath as she forced herself to step forward again. And with her eyes burning and her stomach churning in revulsion, she raised the light up once more.

Raised it up to focus on the deformity that was once her boss' handsome face.

He was completely disfigured.

"Oh Hotch," she murmured as a tear spilled down her cheek, "I'm so sorry."

For a moment her red rimmed gaze dropped back to the dirt beneath them. Her body was being flooded with feelings of guilt and remorse for arriving too late to stop this terrible thing from happening. But she knew that neither guilt nor remorse would do anything to help them in that moment.

Those feelings were for later.

For always.

So Emily bit down hard on her lip as she dragged her eyes back up . . . careful not to look at Hotch's bloody face . . . to focus her brain on the one thing that _would_ help them in that moment.

Figuring out how she was going to cut him down.

Because that needed to be done . . . and they needed to be LONG gone . . . before the UNSUB came back and finished his slice and dice of not only Hotch's body, but hers as well.

But unfortunately she couldn't make herself concentrate on how to get Hotch down without ripping his arms from his sockets. Instead her watery gaze persisted in sliding back to his ruined face. Even in the shadowy light . . . she was purposely keeping the beam focused on his arms instead . . . it was like trying to look away from a train wreck.

You couldn't.

So she finally gave in and just stared at the lumpy, bloody, shadowy, pulverized mess.

The tears were now running freely down her face. The guilt had become a physical weight pressing on her chest. Because when Hotch woke up . . . _if_ Hotch woke up . . . she didn't how the hell she was going to tell him what had happened.

There were no words.

And as Emily shifted her flashlight arm to wipe the back of her hand across her face . . . her nose had started running too . . . suddenly the beam of light caught on something. Something that made her eyes pop.

It was a piece of skin with a ragged edge. That alone wasn't so shocking . . . his whole face was a ragged edge . . . but this edge appeared to have just slipped down his cheek.

Almost like it didn't belong there.

Feeling a fresh jolt of adrenaline surge into her completely overwrought system . . . it would be a miracle if she didn't have a heart attack . . . Emily tentatively reached out to touch the slippery edge.

As her finger made contact with the bloody flesh, she winced. It was slick and warm and she wanted so desperately to yank her hand away. But she knew that there was no time to dick around. There was no time for anything anymore.

Eventually the UNSUB was going to come back. And he was going to come back with a sharp knife.

And maybe a sewing kit.

And though Emily was in part terrified that she was about to quite literally, _tear_ Hotch's face off, another part of her brain was forming a theory. It was a sickening, soul deadening theory, but still one that she was praying to God was true.

Hell, she was praying to ANY god that would LISTEN, that it was true!

So with all of those, _'please God, please, please, pleases'_ running desperately through her brain, Emily tentatively slid her finger under the ragged flap. Her upper teeth dug into her lower lip as she felt the flesh slide just a little more.

The moment was beyond horrible.

But still Emily blinked through the fresh tears in her eyes, and tried to ignore the bile churning in her stomach, as she made herself focus in on the overall structure of Hotch's face.

On what exactly she was seeing.

On what exactly she was revealing.

And though she was filled with fear and revulsion, as her vision narrowed slightly, Emily saw just enough beneath that flap to take a leap. It was a leap of faith. A leap . . . a belief . . . that in this one moment, her prayers to the gods wouldn't go unheeded.

That maybe somebody up there would notice . . . they deserved a win.

And with that, Emily set her jaw and curled her fingers under the slippery edge . . . and then she snatched the bloodied layers of dermis from Hotch's face.

It came away with a sucking sound. Kind of like pulling a boot out that was stuck in the mud.

She nearly threw up.

But somehow she managed . . . by sheer continuing will . . . to push away that sensation. And with the drippy piece of flesh and fat dangling between the thumb and index finger of her pistol hand, Emily again speared the light onto Hotch's face. Though she was trying to prepare herself for the absolute worst outcome . . . a skinned carcass . . . what she saw instead filled her with joy.

IT WAS HIM!

It was Hotch! He HADN'T been carved up! It had just been a mask . . . her thoughts stuttered as her eyes dropped down to the glob in her hand. . . one made out of human skin and chunks of fatty tissue.

Oh Christ!

Emily's delicate stomach suddenly flipped again. She'd just realized what she was holding in her fingers.

Somebody's face.

JESUS!

For a moment her eyes snapped shut. She was attempting to lock the image away . . . to lock it out.

It was just too much of a mind fuck to try and process.

And when her eyes opened again a second later, her lips curled into a grimace of disgust as she flung the piece of bloody tissue ahead into the darkness of the tunnel.

She tossed it away like garbage.

Though some part of her knew that was a terrible thing to do . . . that was a person's identity, literally his face for the world, and she'd flung it away like a piece of snot on her finger . . . at that moment she couldn't find it in her to care. All she cared about was Hotch.

Taking care of him.

And she wasn't going to be able to do that if she lost her fucking mind over the human face mask she'd been holding in her hand. But with that now gone into the darkness, she reached up to touch Hotch's blood smeared face. And again she was overjoyed to see that he was okay. Or not so much 'okay' as unconscious and strung up like a side of beef in a butcher's shop, but still . . . she sniffled as her hand slid along his jaw and hairline feeling for imperfections . . . at least his face hadn't been sliced up.

There was probably some bruising, and maybe some minor cuts, but most of the blood . . . her eyes momentarily snapped down to his splattered t-shirt . . . it had to have belonged to the other victim.

The one whose face was carved off and still dripping when it was slapped on top of Hotch's.

Feeling a shudder run through her body at that image, she tried to shake it from her mind. That would do nothing for her composure. Especially knowing that that nightmarish action had been done SOLELY to fuck with her. There was no other purpose.

There couldn't have been.

Hotch was unconscious, so the act was lost completely on him. Perhaps if he'd woken up it might have been a nice . . . Emily scowled . . . 'bonus' for the UNSUB.

Something to send him over the edge.

But really, that other man had died . . . probably skinned _alive_ . . . just to make HER scream.

It was an act of evil. But of course this was an evil place . . . her mouth twisted in another grimace as her hand fell away from Hotch's cheek . . . run by an evil thing. A thing that had ripped off another man's face, simply for fun.

Evil was the only word for it.

And that image . . . that sensation of holding that warm flesh in her fingers . . . was one that was going to stay with her until the day that she died. But she knew that if she didn't get her ass in gear . . . Emily shook her head to refocus . . . then the day that she died . . . she spun around . . . might very well be today.

So after a frantic rush to check the tunnel in front and behind them . . . she didn't want to move far from Hotch so she could only see about ten feet in either direction, but it was better than nothing . . . Emily began moving on the plan that she'd been attempting to cobble together a few minutes before.

That would be the plan where she cut Hotch down from the rafters without dislocating any of his limbs.

It wasn't a perfect plan . . . if she wasn't personally screaming in agony before it was done that would be a miracle . . . but it was really the only plan that she could work out given the limitations at that moment.

There were no other options.

So after hurriedly tucking the flashlight between her shoulder and chin, she yanked the hunting knife out from the flap of the brown leather satchel.

It was hard to believe that she'd only shoved it in there maybe forty or forty-five minutes ago. But of course it had only taken Alice a second to trip and fall down her rabbit hole too.

And she'd nearly got her head taken off.

Emily rolled her eyes . . . and that was yet another _un_helpful image to add to the collection. And as she shoved it into the little box where she'd put the others . . . her boxes came in handy for so many things . . . Emily tucked the knife under her arm for a moment so she could adjust her hold on the flashlight.

Given the humidity, it was hard to keep a decent grip.

Everything was slippery.

But after she got the black metal semi-secure again . . . and following another anxious check of the tunnels . . . she reluctantly jammed her pistol into her holster.

This was the worst part . . . the part where she had no weapon out to defend them. But she was just going to have to move quickly before something snuck up out of the dark.

And with that, she yanked the knife out from under her arm. And as the sheath was falling to the ground, she was jumping up to slice through the loop of old rope tied to the rotting beam above Hotch's right shoulder.

Her jump was high, and the blade landed dead on.

The knife went through like butter.

But as expected . . . Hotch's body immediately slipped. And Emily hurried to lean up and catch the weight before one of his muscles tore.

This was part of the plan where she expected to start screaming.

Because though she aimed to catch him on her good shoulder, the pain Emily felt as she strained up on her calves was horrific. Even if her plan was the one that caused the least amount of serious damage to Hotch's body . . . she couldn't say it was the one that would do the same for her own.

And when his weight suddenly shifted further . . . and he fell against her, Emily choked down a whimper.

Fresh tears were beginning to pool in her eyes.

Her battered body was not up for this. She'd taken too many hits. But she had no time to stop and regroup . . . they couldn't have been more vulnerable at the moment . . . so she pushed on through the throbbing stabs in her back and her side. And with her jaw set, and the first of the agony filled tears sliding down her cheek, she wrapped one arm around Hotch's waist and pushed up as far as she could on her tiptoes to slice through the other binding.

This one was not a clean cut.

Given her angle . . . and that of the light . . . the work she was doing was mostly in shadow. But fortunately the knife was razor sharp, and the rope she was cutting was old . . . quite probably used on many victims before Hotch . . . so even with the awkwardness of her movements, the blade was able to make relatively quick work of the second restraint.

But unfortunately the moment that the other rope snapped . . . and Hotch's full weight dropped onto hers . . . Emily's legs crumpled beneath her.

She was just too weak to hold them both up.

They fell to the ground in a heap . . . her exhaling a sharp gasp of pain as she landed on her back. Hotch's body was lying prostrate on top of hers.

His still bloodied face was half buried in her cleavage.

Under other circumstances . . . ANY, other circumstances really . . . the position that they'd landed in would appear sexual in nature. But not down there in that darkness, with both of them splattered in gore. Down there it was just a grotesque tableau. A twisted snapshot.

The Lovers in Hell.

Something Dante would have painted.

And it wasn't until after she'd caught the breath that had been knocked out of her, that Emily realized that the knife had slipped from her hand in the fall.

After that she was just thanking God that she hadn't landed on top of it.

Not to say that she wasn't in serious agony. Her bad arm had gotten pinned under Hotch's forearm, and she had to bite back a sob as she pulled it out. And as she lay there again gasping for air, though it felt like every pain sensor she had was screaming, Emily was fairly certain that she hadn't actually broken anything when they fell.

Small miracle there.

Another small miracle . . . her watery eyes bounced around the tunnel . . . was when she saw that the flashlight hadn't bounced away when they hit the ground either. It had slipped down from her neck, but fortunately it had then caught under Hotch's other outstretched arm.

The beam was shining crookedly down from the ceiling, throwing their section of the tunnel in a mix of creepy light and shadows.

But at least she could still make out the general details of the area around them.

It was far better than the blackness that she could see ahead and behind.

And though Emily knew that she needed to get off the crunchy, moving ground . . . God damn millipedes again . . . and start dragging Hotch out before something came out of that blackness, instead she just lay there gasping and crying. The tears were only partly born of the terrible pain . . . the rest was stress.

But either way she couldn't make them stop.

And now that she was down . . . not just down, but being held down by the dead weight that was her unconscious boss . . . her body was starting to give up the ghost. The one thing that had been keeping her going . . . finding Hotch . . . was now lost to her. She'd found him. And he was alive.

And now she couldn't seem to get her body moving again.

But if she didn't, she knew that they were both going to die down there.

That was a fact.

Emily's bad hand inched up from the dirt and she pressed it against the back of Hotch's head. She could feel the stickiness of the blood in his hair. That crack he'd taken to the skull.

A tiny sob ripped through her chest.

She needed to keep going . . . and she needed to stop moving. Because she knew that if she didn't rest soon, then she was simply going to pass out. And then . . . again . . . they were both going to die.

That was also a fact.

And therein lay the problem.

If she didn't get up then they were going to die. If she didn't rest then they were going to die.

Even Sophie didn't have choices like this.

But even if she could somehow push through the pain and physical exhaustion to climb to her feet, Emily didn't know how the hell she was going to find the strength to drag Hotch a half mile out from what felt like the center of the earth. Because in that moment she could barely even envision dragging herself up to her knees.

Hell, she'd started SOBBING just twisting to move his ARM off of hers! So how the FUCK . . . she felt a surge of impotent rage . . . was she going to actually drag them back to the surface?

She couldn't even get up off the fucking GROUND!

Feeling a wave of sheer physical exhaustion suddenly wash over her . . . the rage took too much effort to maintain . . . a fresh batch of hot tears started running down Emily's face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered tearfully as she stroked Hotch's hair, "I'm so sorry that I'm letting you down. But sir," she sniffled as she slid her fingers under Hotch's side so she could reach her gun, "I need you to wake up now. Please. Because I don't think that I can do the rest of it by myself. It's a long walk back out to the world," she sniffled again while sliding the pistol out from her holster, "and I need your help or we're not going to make it."

Emily didn't really expect that her words would reach Hotch down wherever his subconscious was hiding . . . if he hadn't woken up when they fell to the ground, she had figured that she was on her own at least until they reached the surface again . . . so she was honestly shocked when suddenly she felt him start to stir.

Maybe she should have been talking to him from the beginning.

"Hotch," she whispered breathlessly as her fingers stilled in his hair, "Hotch, are you awake?"

Please God! PLEASE!

It took another few seconds, but then she heard . . . and felt . . . the faint murmur as his lips moving against her breast.

"Prentiss?"

"Yeah," another tiny sob ripped from her chest, "it's me! I'm here," she tried a painful shift to elevate his body slightly, "I found you. And you're awake," she impulsively leaned down to the kiss the top of his head, "thank God you're awake! I was so worried. And I didn't know how the hell I was going to get you out of here."

Hotch blinked twice as he slowly lifted his head from Emily's chest until he could see her face in the shimmery pool of light falling around them.

"What happened?" He murmured in confusion. "How did we end up on the ground?"

As soon as the question left his lips, he felt something run over the fingers of his left hand . . . something that had hundreds of tiny little feet . . . and that's when he consciously processed the shifting darkness and the claustrophobic walls pressing on either side. He realized then that they were underground. The fog covering his brain was knocked out by one horrible phrase.

THE MINE SHAFT!

And before Emily could respond, suddenly it had all flashed through his mind like a wave of slamming into the beach:

. . . the decapitated heads

. . . the accident

. . . the abduction

. . . the attack

And now . . . he sucked in a breath . . . they were down in the tunnels.

'_Oh Christ,_' he thought with a wave of panic as he moved to push his body off of Emily's, _'they needed to get OUT of there!'_

Though his physical plans were clear in Hotch's mind, to his astonishment his limbs did not cooperate with the signals he was sending down from his brain. He ended up just flopping back down on Emily's breast.

What the . . . ?

That's when . . . to his growing horror . . . he realized that he had no strength in his arms. None. In fact all that he could feel in his upper quadrants was an agonizing burning sensation . . . but he didn't know why.

Though his early memory seemed to be intact . . . and his thoughts were falling in line with what Emily was whispering to him . . . he couldn't remember anything after getting cold cocked by the tunnel entrance.

But he was starting to believe . . . from the searing pain in his arms and shoulders, and the tears running down Emily's face as she stopped talking to reach down and touch his cheek . . . that his ignorance might just be for the best. Because whatever had happened to him was obviously very bad.

And there are some memories that you just don't need to keep.

". . . and then I had to cut you down from the beams of the shaft," Emily continued with a sniffle as she reached out to try . . . unsuccessfully . . . to wipe away the gruesome clots of blood drying on Hotch's skin, "and I fell when I caught you."

She needed to find something to wipe his face. The blood had dried enough to become tacky, and it was just clumping wherever she tried to wipe it away.

It looked like, well . . . her stomach turned as it had earlier . . . she just needed to get that cleaned up or she was going to lose what was left of her minimal personal composure.

He looked like Carrie's date to the prom.

"Prentiss," Hotch asked slowly as his fingers grappled for her wrist, "what's wrong with my face?"

His skin felt strange . . . wrong. But given the pain emanating from so much of the rest of his body . . . the numbness was giving away to stabbing pins and needles . . . at first he hadn't thought much of that wrongness.

It was a secondary concern.

But given how Emily was looking at him . . . and touching him . . . he was starting to think that whatever had happened to his face, was far worse than whatever had happened to the rest of him.

And that was bringing a fresh tickle of fear to his already overloaded nervous system.

"Um," Emily bit her lip as her hand stilled in his, "when I found you, there was a . . . you were um, wearing a mask. It was uh," she swallowed as her chest started to ache again with the memory, "it was made out of skin and tissue . . . it was another man's face."

Seeing Hotch's eyes widening in horror while his fingertips dug painfully into her flesh, Emily bit her lip.

"I screamed," her voice caught as she flashed on it again, "and I'm sorry for that, but it was so terrible, just so terrible. And at first I didn't know what he'd done to you."

It was horrible, grotesque . . . an abomination. But still . . . she reminded herself . . . it could have been worse. Somebody else could have been wearing Hotch's face, instead of the other way around.

And that . . . she swallowed . . . well, she didn't know how she would have been able to deal with that.

Hotch stared up at Emily with an unblinking horror. Though he had been exposed to more of life's evils than most people ever would, it was still nearly impossible to wrap his brain around what she had just said to him.

Another man's face . . . on top of his.

He swallowed hard . . . and then he did it again. And by the third time he was able to speak again.

"So my face is . . ."

"Covered in gore," Emily gave a clipped nod as she hurriedly finished his thought, "yes, and it's drying and it's . . . well, we need to clean it off. And then," she wiped the back of her hand across her own face, trying to stop the tears, "we need to get the hell out of here before he comes back."

Again, too much time was passing. It had probably been close to three or four minutes since she'd pulled Hotch down, and now that he was awake . . . and this wasn't all on her alone anymore . . . she knew that they needed to start working on a plan to at the very least, get up off the ground. Because Daddy UNSUB would be circling back around for them eventually.

As it was he was probably off laying traps or cleaning his knives or God knew what.

And she would prefer that God kept all of that knowledge to himself.

"Right," Hotch nodded somewhat mechanically as he tried to mentally disengage from the horrific images in his mind . . . the images of having another man's skin ripped off, and then layered on top of his.

It was enough to drive him mad.

He was just thanking God that he was unconscious for that part. The sensation alone would have been enough to drive him around the bend. Because if the skin was still bloody when it was put on, then that meant that it was fresh.

And it would have been warm.

OH JESUS!

Feeling an uncontrollable shudder rip through his body, Hotch tried desperately to yank his work armor back in place.

It didn't work.

He just kept imagining what that moment would have been like. That moment when he awoke. And how long it would have taken him to realize what was on his face.

Minutes? Hours?

Would it have _dried _on there? Gotten STUCK to him?

FUCK!

"Hotch."

Though Emily's voice was just a whisper, Hotch still jumped as his startled gaze snapped up to hers. Then she surprised him with a sad smile.

"It's gone," she continued softly, "I threw it away, and you're okay now. So just put it out of your head. You're okay. I promise."

Hotch blinked in astonishment . . . how did she know exactly what he was thinking? And then he realized that didn't matter. All that mattered was that she was right, he needed to put it out of his head.

Because if he didn't . . . his fingers slid down to squeeze Emily's hand . . . then having a stranger's vivisected epidermal layer dropped on to his, would be the least of his . . . their . . . problems that night.

Next time they could be the ones getting vivisected.

"Right," he bit down on the inside of his cheek, "sorry. And I do have a rag in my pocket, the strips from my shirt that we were going to use as bandages. I can wipe it off with that. So," he grimaced in pain as he braced his other arm on the dirt floor, "let's see if my muscles are working a little better now, so that we can get up and get out of here."

Though it should have felt strange to have been lying on top of a woman in such a traditionally intimate position . . . it really didn't. When push came to shove, any thoughts of sexual intimacy . . . or propriety . . . were the first things to get tossed out the window. Those were societal mores.

Things that didn't apply in this netherworld of blood and torture.

So with Emily helping to lever him up with her good arm . . . the one holding her pistol . . . he was able to slowly . . . with a brutal stabbing in his triceps . . . push himself back to his knees.

And though he was still straddling Emily's thighs, it was at least progress towards getting off the ground.

And off of her.

"How badly are you hurt?" He asked on a ragged pant while brushing away the insects crawling across her chest and shoulders.

At that moment he was taking slow, even breaths to try and push the pain from the forefront of his mind. It was the complete Mind Over Matter approach that worked in most aspects of his life. His will was fairly unbendable when his mind was set.

But unfortunately in this instance . . . at this moment . . . the pain seemed to be even greater than his will.

Everything hurt.

But even with his new injuries compounding his old ones . . . two blows to his head had resulted in a pounding headache . . . he knew that Emily was still in worse shape than he was. Her wounded arm was covered in blood, both fresh and dried, her nose was scraped, and her face . . . which was marked with bruises from the earlier attack . . . was now etched in pain.

He was honestly amazed that she was still conscious.

And seeing her staring up at him with a faint panic in her eyes . . . she hadn't answered his question . . . his expression softened slightly as his hand fell to her side.

"Can you stand up?" He whispered.

Emily's gaze fell down to the crimson splatters on Hotch's t-shirt.

"No," she murmured softly, "no, I don't think so. Not right now."

Though she knew that it wasn't really her fault . . . there were certain physical limitations that even the strongest person couldn't overcome . . . it was still so embarrassing. Rescuing someone and then having to ask that person for help just getting up off the ground again.

_That_ wasn't in any of the damn fairy tales!

"Okay," he patted her hip comfortingly, "it's okay. Don't worry about it. I don't even know if _I_ can get up yet, and you've had a hell of a lot worse day than me," he shook his head, "but one thing at a time. You just rest for a minute, but keep that gun handy. And in the meanwhile," he jammed his other hand into his pants pocket as his tone hardened, "I'll try and get this crap off my face."

Trying to ignore the visuals that were popping into his head . . . he knew from the look on Emily's face that he was a fright . . . Hotch yanked out a couple of the strips he'd ripped up earlier to bandage Emily's arm. That task still needed to be done at some point. But as he hurriedly wiped the still damp cloth over his face, scrubbing the hardest where Emily pointed, he knew that they didn't have time for full urgent care right now anyway.

Right now was just emergency triage.

Once they got back outside again . . . he looked down at Emily now staring up at him . . . he'd take care of her arm with whatever the hell was left of his shirt.

"Better?" he whispered as he turned his head slightly towards the pool of light. And Emily nodded hurriedly, "yeah, much better. Just get that bit under your jaw there. It's still um . . . um . . ."

Hotch didn't wait for her to finish the descriptive thought . . . he was afraid the word was going to be 'gooey' and that uncontrollable shudder would come back again.

"Got it," he said while doing another frantic scrub under his jawline. Then he used just his wrist to whip the filthy strips to the side of the tunnel.

His upper body was continuing to cause him considerable pain . . . the blood flow was still working its way around the muscles . . . but there was nothing to be done about that. He now had at least some movement and strength back.

So that meant that it was time to try and get up.

And with a grit of his teeth, he slowly pushed himself up to his haunches . . . and then to his feet. And though he felt a little dizzy, and the exertion was great . . . he still had the bullet wound in his calf . . . the pain he experienced wasn't bad enough to knock him back down to his knees. But that was because most of the muscles he'd relied on had been in his thighs.

And that was about the only part of his body that was still in decent physical condition.

Still though, he gave himself a moment to catch his ragged breath before he looked back down to Emily.

Her eyes were wide, but she had pushed herself up to her elbows.

He had a feeling that was as far as she could go.

So he bent over slightly, reaching down with one hand outstretched as he gave her a little smile.

"Okay," he murmured, "this is going to hurt. So let's both of us try not to scream, deal?"

And he saw Emily nod as her fingers slid into his.

"Deal." She whispered back.

And then Hotch bit down on his lip . . . and yanked as hard as he could.

Though ordinarily he knew that pulling her up would require no exertion at all . . . this was not an ordinary situation. And rather than her coming straight up to her feet, the pull was slow . . . and the resulting pain was excruciating.

For both of them.

Even as his eyes burned with the effort of lifting her, Hotch could see fresh tears running down Emily's already dirty and tear streaked face.

He felt a stab of guilt that he was hurting her.

And then suddenly she was on her feet.

They both stood there, gasping . . . her bent slightly and biting the back of her hand . . . as they tried to adjust to this new normality. The one where their previously healthy, muscular bodies, had been aged a hundred years in an hour. He was feeling every one of his forty plus years on the planet.

And how she had ever managed to find him in her condition, was nothing short of a miracle.

At least he . . . Hotch thought bitterly as she tried to straighten up . . . had had a little break in the festivities. He'd been _dragged_ down into the bowels of hell.

She'd most likely run the entire way.

And that was with a head injury, a chunk of her scalp missing, and . . . he winced in sympathy as he saw her trying to wipe away the tears running down her face . . . a bullet wound in her shoulder. All of that blood loss, plus nearly being torn in two during the fight to keep her from being dragged off into the woods. And as that thought came to him . . . how, even in the condition that she was in, how badly she was hurt, that she had risked her own life to come save him . . . Hotch impulsively reached out to put his hand on her uninjured shoulder.

When her pain filled eyes snapped up to his, his expression warmed as he tugged her against his chest. He was trying to be careful to avoid touching her bad side.

"Thank you for coming to find me," he whispered against her hair, "I won't be able to repay that debt."

"Sure you can," Emily sniffled into one of the few relatively clean spots of Hotch's t-shirt, "if you can just get us back to the surface, then we'll call it even."

Unless she somehow found an Energizer battery to tape to her ass, then she was going to be hanging on him the whole way up.

Hotch patted Emily's back.

"Okay, deal. Now then," he leaned back slightly to look down at her, "can you get those Tic Tacs out of your bra? We're going to need the sugar."

It wasn't much sugar, but given how heavily she was leaning against him, she wasn't going to be able to go ten feet if he didn't get some little jolt into her system.

"Oh," Emily took a half step back and began fumbling to get her hand into her shirt, "right."

As she slid her fingers into her bra, Hotch reached down to snatch the flashlight from the ground. Once he was back to his feet . . . it was a slightly unsteady movement . . . he turned to swing the beam behind him.

As the creepy mixture of light and dusty shadow suddenly disappeared, Emily felt a wave of terror as she was plunged into complete darkness.

"Hotch," she hissed in a panic as her fingertips clenched painfully into her breast. But then she felt Hotch immediately slip his arm around her waist.

"Sorry," Hotch whispered as he tugged Emily closer while still running the light overhead, and then down the section of the shaft that was behind her, "I'm just trying to get my bearings."

'_And make sure nobody's creeping up behind us,_' he added to himself.

"Right," Emily murmured as she slipped the tiny plastic box out from her bra cup, "I know, but you just caught me off guard with the darkness plunging and all."

It wasn't the same having the light shift around when you weren't the one controlling it.

Hotch winced at the gentle reproach . . . she was right. Plunging somebody into darkness down here, was not a nice thing to do.

It was actually a really shitty thing to do.

"Won't happen again," he murmured as he again fixed the light beam to bounce off the ceiling above them. "I promise," he added as his gaze snapped down to lock with hers.

"Thanks," Emily gave him a pained smile as she held up the little box of mints, "I appreciate that. And given that neither of us has a third hand," she could ask him to let go of her but that wasn't happening, "open up, sir."

Hotch stooped down slightly and opened his mouth, and Emily poured in a shake of the tiny green mints. Then she did the same for herself before snapping the cover shut again and shoving the little box into her pocket.

Chewing that many mints at once caused a slight burning sensation on her tongue, but more importantly it triggered not only her appetite . . . but her salivary response again.

But then she started to cough as a speck of mint caught in throat.

Shit.

As she was doing her mightiest to regain control of her cough reflex before the sound bounced back out to wake the dead, she felt Hotch's hand slide up from where it was resting at the small of her back. And then he was gently smacking her between the shoulder blades.

"You okay?" he whispered just as she got her throat to clear without another coughing bout.

"Yeah," she murmured while swallowing again, "thanks."

Can't even be the cool kid two miles beneath the earth.

"All right then," Hotch continued softly while slipping one of the rifles off of her shoulder, "it's time to get moving."

At least Emily had thought to grab the rifles before she came after him, but what he wouldn't have given for a handgun of any shape or size. But he'd lost his primary weapon up on the surface, and his backup piece . . . the Glock . . . he could tell from the lack of weight by his ankle, that one was long gone too.

And that was very nice that he was able to provide the UNSUB not one, but TWO additional methods by which to take not only his life, but Emily's as well.

The thought came with a wave of bitter disgust, but he tried to push it back. An emotion like that wasn't going to do anything but distract him from the matter at hand.

Getting out of there with both of their heads still attached to their unskinned bodies.

Emily let the strap of the rifle slip off of her wrist, and then using Hotch's belt for stability . . . she slowly crouched down to pick up the hunting knife from where it had fallen by the tunnel wall.

Fortunately the flashlight beam was glinting on the shiny metal.

As she tried to come back to her feet, she felt Hotch's arm slide around her waist again.

"You don't have the energy for extra movements Prentiss," Hotch gently chastised, "you should have just told me about the knife and I would have gotten it."

Emily gave him a sheepish . . . tired . . . smile.

"Habit. Now," she held it out, "do you want to carry it, or," she shook her head, "you know what," she held her gun out, "you should take this. You're going to be taking point, so you should have the best weapon."

It was a little strange handing off her pistol to anyone, especially in a situation like this. But she had to consider what was practical. And practically speaking . . . until she could stand completely upright without any assistance from the man in front of her . . . she seemed to have pulled a muscle in her back . . . Hotch was clearly the more physically fit of the two of them.

His reflexes would be faster than hers.

"If you're sure," Hotch tipped his head as he slipped the sig from her hand, "thank you."

"Yeah," Emily nodded as she hoisted the weight of the razor sharp knife more firmly into her hand, "it's only logical. And actually, I don't mind the knife," her lip curved in faint smile, "my dad made me start practicing with them when I was a kid. My throwing aim isn't quite as good as my shooting aim, but based on my last workout with my dad, I can still hit what I'm aiming at dead center nine times out of ten."

Her shooting was ten out of ten. But of course she practiced more often with the guns than the knives.

Hotch's eyebrow rose up appreciatively.

"That's very good to know Prentiss," then he huffed humorlessly as he slipped his flashlight arm around her waist, "and I think I'd like to meet your father someday."

Though Hotch knew that the ambassador was one formidable woman, he was getting the impression that Emily's father probably had a greater influence on her development than her mother had. The woman beside him was a lethal and tenacious fighter, capable of easily taking down opponents twice her size.

The man that had raised her had done a hell of a job.

"Sure," Emily's mouth curved faintly as Hotch gave her a tight squeeze, "I think that could be arranged."

The two of them would probably get along quite well. After all they were the two toughest men that she'd ever met.

She had no idea who would win in a physical match.

"Okay," Hotch squinted slightly as he turned them to shine the light back and forth in the darkness, "which way is out?"

Given that he was unconscious for the trip down, getting out was going to be all Emily.

"That way," Emily pointed back the way that she'd come, "it's about six or seven minutes back to the main tunnel, but fair warning," her expression tightened as she looked up at him, "there was a . . . a sculpture. A person and uh, dog, and well," she shook her head, "it's very upsetting."

Upsetting, scream inducing . . . potato, potatoe.

Hotch's jaw twitched.

"Got it."

And with that he pulled her more tightly against his side. Ordinarily of course that wasn't how they moved about, on duty or off. But right now they were neither . . . they were in a limbo state just trying to stay alive . . . and it was clear that completely left to her own devices, Emily would be trailing five or six paces behind him. But they needed to stick tightly together. It was the only way that they were going to make it out. At that moment Milton's words were ringing in his mind.

"_Long is the way_ _and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light."_

'_Well here's to hoping that old Johnny's right about the light,_' Hotch thought bitterly. And with that, he began moving them forward up the sloped path.

The insects were scrambling everywhere the light hit. And Emily was leaning slightly against him . . . but not too heavily. He knew that would be a source of pride for her.

That she was able to keep moving under her own power. So he was just keeping her moving a little faster, that's all.

And they were doing well for the first few minutes, but then he felt Emily's steps drag slightly as her fingertips dug into his side.

"It's not far now," she murmured as Hotch slowed his pace right before nodding as he bit out a quiet . . . and clipped, "right."

He had no more desire to suddenly stumble over one of those 'sculptures' than she did. The one by the side of the road had knocked his composure completely out of whack. So he kept his eyes peeled for the corpse that he now knew was just ahead of them.

Just as his light flashed over a grotesque outline . . . one that made his head hurt to process . . . there was a sound from behind them.

It was like a whimper.

Hotch's heart was again pounding as they spun around, his arm clenching like a vise around Emily as they turned.

They weren't going to get separated again.

But he could feel the quiver of the adrenaline pumping through her body as he swung the light back and forth trying to see where the noise had come from.

There was nothing.

Or . . . Hotch's eyes widened in horror just as he heard Emily gasp from beside him.

Oh Christ!

The face donor . . . the one that they had presumed would be dead, that he HAD to be dead . . . had just come stumbling out of the blackness. He was very much alive. And very much a creature straight out of the darkest of nightmares. Not only was his skin flayed completely off of his face, but what was left of his mouth and eyes had been sewn up in thick black stitches.

And he was coming right at them.

* * *

_A/N 2: You see now why we went M? Once faces (or thongs) start coming off, it's time to up the rating. But come now, you didn't REALLY think that I was going to slice up Hotch's pretty face, did you? :) Granted I might have opted to give these few more than a few new scars, but I wouldn't bust his face up so severely that Emily would end up shrieking when she saw him. At least not in this story ;) I did consider the sewn mouth to be an option for him, but I liked the skinned face better. And that's just a disturbing sentence when taken out of context, or even in context. But really, I was picturing Silence of the Lambs (spoilers for decades old movie!) when Hannibal slices off the guard's face to escape. In this instance though, it was more of a hack job than a slice job. And it would be bloody and lumpy and just totally gross and horrible to look at because, not only was it bloody and lumpy and totally gross in principle, but it was also being layered on top of somebody else's bone structure. And Emily first seeing it in the bouncing flashlight beam, would make it all the more disturbing and harder to discern exactly what it was that had happened._

_And now it turns out the poor bastard isn't even dead. That sucks._

_We hit almost 9000 words here because I kept pushing and pushing this as far out as I could before I hit another break point. Because I REALLY am trying to wrap this thing up. But the 4 week intermission on any postings at all kind of f'd that up a bit. We're getting there though!_

_And as always, thank you everyone for the feedback! And I THINK (wood being knocked) that I might have worked through that little block I've had lately. My dreams were incredibly vivid and elaborately detailed last night. That's usually a sign that portion of my brain is working as needed again. So I've got some stuff to do, but them I'm going to see if I have anything else ready to go up. I have been poking away on stuff, it's just been messy and awkward to read. When my brain's working right, I can clean it up :)_


	11. The Damnation Game

**Author's Note:** Believe it or not, we're (almost) done! There will be an epilogue, but that's really transitioning them from this story to the next one (and this world will be continuing) so I figured it should go up by itself. This chapter will take things along pretty far though. This world will be very different when we're done here :)

Buckle up, rough stuff ahead!

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* * *

**The Damnation Game**

Hotch stumbled backwards. His fingers were digging deep into Emily's side as his gut clenched in revulsion, and something beyond fear. Something that he couldn't name.

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!

It was the only real thought repeating in his head. Part curse . . . part prayer. That was the moment. And the moment had no conscious thought to it.

It was too visceral for that.

But once he took that first step back . . . once he allowed the unnamed to set his path . . . Hotch found himself moving them in the same direction. But again, there was no choice in that moment.

It was just what happened.

He was dragging the now weeping Emily along in a perverse synchronicity . . . they were limping one slow step backwards, for every stumbling step forward taken by the man (thing) in front of them.

And though Hotch felt like a monster for doing it . . . after all it was a monstrous thing to do . . . there was nothing in his life or his career, as fucked up as they had both been, to prepare him for this encounter. To prepare him for this . . . this . . . he swallowed down the bile rising in his throat . . . abomination.

That's what it was, an abomination.

A sin incarnate.

And as they took the fourth step . . . and the thing took the third . . . the shock began to fade.

Though the revulsion did not.

But when Hotch's higher brain functions finally began to take over once again, he knew that even if he had time to move past that revulsion and horror, that this choice that he had not made . . . was the only choice that they had. They weren't equipped to help this man. His injuries were beyond them. So he would only slow them down. His jaw clenched.

Which was why they were going to leave him to die.

He pressed his lips to Emily's ear.

"You have to run, the best you can. We have to go now."

He tried to keep his voice sound steady, in control . . . he failed.

"What?" Emily asked as her head snapped up. But he avoided her eyes. Even in shadows, there was judgment there.

And he had enough of that in spades.

"No, Hotch," Emily sniffled angrily, "we can't . . ." she shook her head vehemently, "we can't do that. We can't leave him. That would be . . . we just can't."

She wanted to say that it was wrong, but wrong wasn't the right word. There wasn't a right word. Not one to cover an act as monstrous as abandoning this poor man, to this hellish world.

If they did that . . . if they walked away . . . it was a road to damnation.

And that was a path that she did not wish to travel.

_'Because there were things that they could do,'_ she thought as she sniffled again and nodded to herself, _'they could lead him out.'_

They could do that much.

And maybe that, that . . . her thoughts stuttered . . . well, maybe that would make up for her flinging the skin of his face away like a piece of trash.

_'Or maybe it wouldn't,'_ her conscience corrected sadly, _'maybe that one didn't have a tradeoff for belated acts of decency.'_

Maybe it shouldn't.

Hearing the tears in Emily's voice . . . and feeling her steps dragging them to a halt as her nails dug into his arm . . . Hotch knew that her moral conflict here was much greater than his. But that was to be expected, he thought bitterly, because she was the kinder of the two. The more compassionate.

The one with the bigger heart.

But her goodness was going to get her killed. And Hotch wasn't going to allow that to happen. Not today, not ever if he could help it. But definitely not after all that they had been through just to get to this moment.

Just to survive this far.

Which meant that this departure now was solely on him. It wasn't going to be a joint decision to abandon this poor, brutalized, man.

It would be an executive one.

Hotch's eyes started to burn . . . but perhaps that was just as well. Because Emily was only here because he had chosen her for this trip. And then he had chosen to drive to Texas rather than to get on another plane.

So all of this . . . every monstrous moment . . . was on him.

And realizing then for the first time, that regardless of Emily's earlier absolution, that this was _completely_ his fault, Hotch swallowed down the bile in his throat. And as he stood there with Emily pleading in his ear, he once more ran the light over the creature stumbling towards them.

He was naked and bruised, and bleeding in places beyond just where his face had been.

Bleeding in places that Hotch didn't even want to think about.

But still, with his jaw set, he made himself think about them. Made himself take it all in . . . the blood running down the man's legs, the oozing pink flesh hanging off the remnants of his face.

The places where the skin was rippled when it had slipped down slightly onto the neck.

And then back up again to the seams of thick, crooked black stitches . . . they were holding together what was left of the lips. And finally the sockets . . . they were showing what was left of the eyes. God only knew at what point he'd been blinded. It was a horror show like no other.

And it was his to own.

And once Hotch was sure that those images were burned into his mind . . . that they would never fade . . . he sent up one more hopeless prayer.

One for forgiveness that he knew would never come.

And then he took a breath . . . and he whispered to the man in front of them.

"I'm so sorry for what's happened to you sir," his voice cracked, "but we can't help you. We'll send people back."

And then he shifted his grip around Emily's waist . . . spun around as quickly as he could given their injuries . . . and started dragging her away.

Emily's head was twisting around, she was pulling against him, trying to turn back even as he half yanked her off the ground. The action caused a stab of pain between his shoulder blades.

He welcomed it.

"But Hotch we CAN'T!" She screamed, "We can't LEAVE him!"

The words were high and shrill . . . and then her voice broke completely. And hearing her heartbroken sobs, Hotch flinched as though he had been slapped.

The sobbing was cutting into him even more than the human wreck that they were leaving behind. Because that misery behind him _wasn't_ his fault, but this misery happening now beside him, was.

His own tears started to pool.

"We _have_ to, Emily," he said, his own voice breaking as he desperately kept trying to pull her along, "_please_ understand that. Please. Of course I wish that we could help him too, but we just have too far to go. And we're in too bad a shape. You're going to bleed to death if I don't get you out of here. And I'm sorry, but I can't worry him too. And if we don't get out of here soon, then that's us. We'll be the ones butchered, blinded and stumbling forever in the dark. Don't you see that?" his voice wavered again, "Can't you _please_ see that? For me, please try."

It wasn't that the other options were bad options . . . it's that there were no other options. This was the only one. The two of them lived . . . or they all died.

Again, there was no choice.

Emily was quiet for a moment . . . her body rigid against his side . . . and then she stopped struggling.

The fight just went away.

When she fell against him, he saw her nod and gasp out an "okay," as she wiped her hand across her face.

She was trying to stop crying.

Hotch knew then that she now saw things his way. He'd made his point.

And he hated himself for it.

Because even if that's what he had needed . . . for her to let the better angels go . . . he hated that he had taken that from her. That this world was making her like him.

Ruthless.

OH JESUS!

Hotch's internal recriminations vanished as he froze in the middle of the tunnel.

The statue that Emily warned him about was beginning to appear out of the shadows. It was about ten paces ahead of them. And though she had told him what to expect, as they started walking again, he realized that her warning hadn't really done it justice.

This thing was nearly as horrifying as what they'd just run way from. The only difference being that at least this man, or really, these _creatures_ . . . there were two heads . . . were already dead.

Small favors there.

And he was prepared to just scoot around the side, when Emily suddenly froze up again. Her hand clamped onto his, and the little hairs on his arm stood up.

Something was wrong.

"Wait!" Emily gasped as her watery eyes popped open wide, "Stop!" she continued in a near panic as her nails gouged into Hotch's wrist.

"Something's different." She hissed in a quieter tone while tugging him back a few steps, "but I don't know what it is."

After throwing a quick look behind him, Hotch began frantically running the beam over the corpse up ahead of them.

His breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Part of it was the pain of exerting himself. But he was also actually feeling a moment of genuine panic. He wasn't sure if he was up for a physical confrontation.

Not yet.

His muscles were still throbbing . . . he wasn't sure how much strength was there.

Perhaps not enough to protect them.

"What _is_ it Prentiss?" He snapped, "_what's _different?"

Though he hated that he was yelling at her, it couldn't be helped. He was too wound up. And Christ knows that he didn't want to run into a trap, but they also couldn't stand still either! Not only were they sitting ducks, but they still had that nightmare stumbling up behind them.

And Hotch wasn't sure if he could abandon that man twice.

"Um, I . . . um," Emily stammered in uncertainty, the pressure of the moment . . . of not fucking this up . . . was nearly paralyzing.

The knife in her hand was up, her heart was pounding and her eyes were straining . . . they were bouncing everywhere that the light went.

Over and over Hotch ran it up and down, all the crevices . . . but still . . . her teeth ground together . . . she couldn't figure out what it was that was different! But it was SOMETHING! Something that her subconscious had noticed a minute before. And she knew that whatever it was, that she had to find it before they took another step.

Because it was something bad.

OH!

Her heart skipped a beat. She'd found it! Or more specifically . . . her arm started coming up . . . she remembered what it was before.

And the change was going to be what killed them.

So before she'd even made a conscious choice . . . the knife was flying out of her hand.

It went spinning up the length of the shaft . . . it traveled almost twelve feet . . . and then it imbedded into the chest of the corpse.

Except it wasn't a corpse. Not all of it.

And that's why it screamed.

But Emily didn't stop to let herself process that yelp of pain . . . the pitch to it . . . she was already shaking Hotch off, running forward as she screamed herself, "IT'S HIM! IT'S THE UNSUB!"

The rifle was coming off her shoulder even as the grotesque sculpture was tumbling down.

It fell in a heap.

Decayed body parts splintered off, throwing up a waft of odor so foul that Emily felt the vomit rise in her throat. She was choking it back down as Hotch's hand clamped around her arm again.

"What the FUCK!"

His voice was a mixture of confusion and terror. He had the Sig trained in on what was left of the creature that was both dead . . . his jaw clenched . . . and horrifyingly alive.

The legs were twitching.

"The head was wrong," Emily triumphantly explained while knocking aside the excess body parts with the muzzle of the rifle, "The thing I saw before was a rotting man and dog, but it only had one head. This one had two. The second one, the bear is new. The bear's a mask, and he was hiding his body behind the decayed pieces. And you see," her boot stomped down on a hatchet clutched in the dying man's hand, "he's got a weapon! It's the UN . . . SUB."

The last word got caught in her throat.

_Oh. Oh no. Oh, God no._

And then she heard Hotch's quiet curse from her side . . . and she wanted to throw up.

Because she'd been wrong.

It wasn't the UNSUB . . . it couldn't be. And she knew that because she'd just pushed aside the last hunk of rotting flesh, and what was now visible in the light . . . her eyes started to water . . . was cleavage. Cleavage soaked in fresh blood. Cleavage that had a six inch bowie knife sticking out of it.

It was a woman's chest.

And they were being hunted by a man.

It was a misdirection . . . her breath caught . . . just like out on the road.

Just as that realization came to her . . . that they'd fallen into a trap . . . the flashlight suddenly went flying.

And Hotch along with it.

All thoughts of her grief and guilt over killing this woman (whoever she was) vanished, as Emily spun around in the dark.

She was screaming Hotch's name. Trying to follow both him, and the precious light, as she stumbled over the dead body, and the pile of dismembered limbs now tripping her in the dark.

It took a second . . . a panicked, terror filled second . . . but then she saw that the flashlight had flown back down the tunnel from where they'd already come. It had gone at least fifteen feet, landing with the beam going the other way. The light was flickering. She bit into her lip.

The batteries must have loosened.

Shit!

And though Emily desperately wanted to get to the flashlight before it went completely out . . . before they were plunged into total darkness . . . she needed to get to Hotch first. She needed to help him.

And even though she couldn't actually see him . . . she could see nothing but the shimmering light that was MUCH too far away . . . she could hear the scuffle even as she was tripping in the inky blackness in her section of the shaft.

Just ahead of her . . . half the distance of the flashlight . . . there was grunting and cursing . . . and the pounding of bone and flesh. They were beating the shit out of each other.

And then there was a shot.

Emily froze, screaming Hotch's name again as she aimed the rifle into the darkness where she'd seen the muzzle fire.

For a moment there was no response, no sounds at all . . . nothing but her own panicky breath. And in that moment Emily's grief and terror came roaring back.

Hotch was dead . . . she was alone. Alone in the dark with the UNSUB.

She was going to go insane.

But then she heard a ragged gasp for air . . . and then a raspy voice.

"I'm here Prentiss."

"Oh thank God," she cried out while again stumbling forward, now heading towards the sound of his voice, and the ragged wheezing of his breath.

Five . . . six . . . seven paces . . . and then she felt his hand touch her leg.

She dropped down to her knees, the rifle falling to the ground as she reached out like a blind woman.

It was still black where they were.

"Are you hurt?"

The tears were back in her voice. Stress and exhaustion were destroying whatever emotional control she had left.

She just hoped that eventually she could get it back.

"Yes," Hotch slowly exhaled, biting back a moan as he caught Emily's hand, "but I think I'll live. Now quickly," he squeezed her fingers with the hand not holding the pistol, "go get the flashlight. Stay to the left and up against the wall."

Though he knew the attacker was down . . . he could feel the blood pool on what was clearly the right side of his chest . . . Hotch doubted that he was dead yet.

They just weren't having that kind of luck.

"Right," Emily sucked in a breath as she dropped Hotch's hand to grab the rifle again, "the flashlight. Okay."

So with Hotch's help she slowly pushed herself back to her feet. Just because it was a fresh emergency didn't mean that her body had miraculously healed itself.

Adrenaline was still doing most of the walking.

But with Hotch's arm guiding her up and then around the UNSUB, Emily was able to scramble past them to go down and grab the flashlight.

Next to their lives, that light was the most precious commodity that they had.

And after she picked it up, she spun around, slightly unsteady on her feet as she shone the flickering beam back down the tunnel. She shook it slightly until the light stopped shaking.

But seeing Hotch's arm come up to shield his eyes at the full brightness, she quickly shifted the beam down fully to the body on the ground.

She started walking back towards him.

"Is it him?" she asked anxiously, "is he dead?" And then her eyes widened as she saw for the first time, the fresh blood soaking through Hotch's t-shirt.

He'd been cut.

There was a slash through his t-shirt on his left side, right by his abdomen. And there were bright red marks forming on his neck. It looked like the UNSUB had been trying to crush his larynx.

That explained the raspy voice.

But a full assessment of his new injuries . . . and whether the two of them were now even capable of CRAWLING out of the shaft . . . had to wait for a moment. At least until she knew for sure that this was the UNSUB, and that he was out of the game.

So she watched as Hotch looked the body over with that steely eyed assessment of his.

"Yeah," he responded with a sharp nod, "it's him. Look at the features. He's the right age, and he's the spitting image of Lonnie plus twenty years and those streaks of grey."

Now that identity had been established, Hotch picked up the hunting knife that had been used to cut him . . . Emily could see the blood . . . then he winced slightly as he tossed it over towards her feet.

She quickly picked it up and tucked it into the outer pouch of the leather bag.

God knows that they couldn't leave any weapons lying around. But also, they might need it for something later.

Again, it was a long walk out.

Then she watched as Hotch . . . using the wall of the shaft for leverage . . . slowly pushed himself up to his knees. Her Sig was still in his left hand.

"Ready?" he asked softly.

"Ready," Emily said with a nod as she pointed the rifle at the UNSUB's head. And with that, Hotch slowly reached out and ripped open the ragged flannel shirt . . . the bullet had gone high on the right side of his chest.

Not exactly an area ripe for mortal injury. And given the amount of blood . . . minimal . . . most likely the only reason that the UNSUB was unconscious was because Hotch had followed up the bullet by slamming his head into the ground three or four times. The earth wasn't that hard though. It was just packed dirt.

So there was no way this guy was anywhere near dead.

Still though, even knowing what he was going to find, Hotch had to check. So with Emily still covering him, he pressed two fingers to the side of the UNSUB's neck, feeling for the carotid.

"Fuck."

The whispered expletive came with a wince of pain that made Emily's own heart ache . . . he was still alive. And based on Hotch's expression as his fingers curled into a fist, his condition was nowhere near critical. Not surprising given where that bullet had gone.

The injury hardly looked any worse than hers.

Probably less . . . that looked like soft tissue only.

So that meant that he was going to wake up soon. But . . . her eyes started to sting . . . they couldn't let that happen.

They couldn't let him wake up.

Not if they wanted to get out of there alive. It was bad enough that she'd left the sons at the entrance. Maimed or not, she was still praying that act of mercy wasn't one that they were going to pay for later.

But this man . . . her eyes burned as she saw Hotch's hand scrub across his mouth . . . this man had to die. And he had to die not because he deserved to . . . though he clearly did . . . but because it was going to take them HOURS to climb out of this hole.

Literally, hours.

And they didn't have a shot in hell of making it out alive, if they left this man here behind them. He was down now . . . but these bastards kept getting back up again. Over and over. They had no cuffs. No rope. And had no guarantee that there weren't other disciples down here . . . other girls with hatchets in their hands . . . waiting back in the pit for new marching orders from Daddy. He was the medusa.

They had to cut off the head.

And they both knew it.

"I can do it," she whispered.

Hell, what was one more body for the day's count? At least this one was _established_ evil. So maybe this would even out the dead girl up ahead of them in the tunnel. Who knows who the hell she was? A sister? Wife? A stockholmed victim?

Just a victim.

Didn't matter. Either way, that was two maimings and three deaths for her today . . . a new record. Lucky girl.

Emily's thoughts came with fresh tears that she tried to push away, and bitterness that she couldn't. But the bitterness didn't last . . . there was too much grief there. Too much guilt.

It just made everything hurt.

"No," Hotch shook his head, his hand falling from his face as his eyes snapped over to hers, "no, you won't. This is on me."

He put his hand out.

"Come over here."

Though the UNSUB was lying still, that pulse was strong . . . and it was steady. And he was still basically fit.

Which was more than could be said for either he or Emily at that point.

They had no strength for another fight. The next time one of them went down . . . they weren't getting up. Which meant that again they had reached a moment where the choice really was no choice at all.

This was what had to be done.

But Hotch waited until Emily had stepped around the UNSUB again . . . the father, he was just Lonnie with greasy silver streaks . . . and had moved behind him, before he took his breath. And as he felt her warm hand fell to his back, and the light fall steady onto the body, Hotch moved his finger over a half a millimeter.

There was no question this time as to whether or not God would forgive him.

He wouldn't.

And for that reason, he waited. Because he knew what was coming . . . possum was the family game. And if he had to do this, and he did, he was at least going to look the man in the eye when he did it.

It was all he had to salvage.

Nearly a minute passed, and then the lids fluttered . . . and the eyes popped open onto his. They were black and cold . . . and full of an insane fury. The arm started to come up.

Hotch fired.

One bullet . . . just one . . . went right into the center of the forehead. That was all that was needed. He would waste no more ammo.

Fortunately the blood was minimal, he had seen enough blood that day, but the eyes . . . dear God those eyes . . . they stayed open.

Wide open.

So Hotch got to stand there, watching as the life drained out of them. But he supposed that was punishment. God . . . or whoever the fuck was up there . . . shaking a finger.

_See what you've done Aaron, you wanted to take a life . . . so watch it go. And know that you did that._

_And you remember this moment too._

Emily's watery gaze slowly shifted up from the dead man on the ground. She blinked to try to clear the tears from her eyes.

He didn't deserve them.

But of course they weren't really for him, they were for what had to be done to him. And they were for what she could see was happening to Hotch. The rock hard tension in his jaw, the curling of his fist and the blackness in his eyes . . . he was retreating. Walling himself off once more. This time though it was for a different reason. It wasn't the cool detachment that he needed to do his work.

It was because his heart was broken.

It didn't matter that the death had been necessary for them to live, what mattered was that it had not been in the heat of combat . . . it was a cold act. A preemptive strike.

An execution.

And there was no getting around that. He had stopped her from committing one out on the surface. And he had done that because it violated everything that they stood for her, everything that fought for . . . he had stopped her to save her soul.

So now it was time to return the favor.

Her hand slid down from his back, running briefly along his forearm until she'd reached his fingers.

They were still curled shut.

"Hotc . . . Aaron," she whispered, "please look at me."

For a moment his gaze remained steady on the body at his feet . . . the insects had begun to swarm. Then he blinked once, and his eyes snapped down hers. And in the glow from the flashlight, for a moment she could see the shift on his face . . . the agony briefly glimpsed behind that door.

And then he slammed it shut again.

"Let's go."

His voice was hoarse as he took her arm. But she didn't let him pull her along. Not this time.

Not yet.

Instead she stood still, taking a moment to hook the strap of the rifle back over her shoulder.

She winced as she did it.

And then reached up with her good arm . . . her palm cupped around his dirty cheek.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

"What you did was right," she whispered, "and I won't let anyone say otherwise . . . even you."

And seeing Hotch's eyes widen in shock, she leaned in against his chest . . . and she hugged him.

Tight.

It hurt, physically, it hurt. Her arm was throbbing and her muscles were again screaming from the fresh exertion and the fading adrenaline, but still . . . she put everything she had into it. Just waiting, waiting for him to hug her back.

If she didn't catch him now . . . he was going to keep falling.

And he was going to break.

Finally she felt his arm slip tentatively around her waist . . . and then the tentativeness was gone. And he was burying his face in her hair as his fingertips dug into her side.

Another tear ran down her face.

Feeling his chest hitch, she rubbed his back, and winced again . . . but she said nothing more. The words that she'd needed to share, had already been spoken. Now it was on him. He had to find a way to accept them.

And that was on him alone.

Hotch tried to blink away the hot tears pooling in his eyes. He had no idea how Emily had done it, but she'd said just the right thing to cut right through his defenses like a chainsaw.

She just might be better at this job than he was.

Today it seemed like it anyway. But once she'd cut him down, she propped him back up again. And though he wouldn't ordinarily ever allow _anybody_ to see him so broken, this was not an ordinary day. And as his breath hitched and he felt one of those tears finally spill over, she hugged him tighter still. It was then that he began to understand a truth that had been staring him in the face since this woman had first stumbled into his life a decade ago.

Emily Prentiss wasn't just another member of his team. Or another person in his life.

She never had been.

She was something more. He didn't understand it, but he was starting to see that he needed to accept it.

Because she might be his only way out of this darkness.

This bond that they'd forged today . . . a bond born of blood and pain and true regret . . . it was something to hold onto. She . . . he squeezed her waist tighter, being careful to avoid pressure on her shoulder . . . was something to hold onto. And maybe if he did, he might get out of this hell with a little of himself left.

Without her he just might be lost for good.

And he wanted to say thank you, but the words wouldn't come. All he could get out was a choked, "I . . ." and then his throat closed.

But that was okay too. Because she just hushed him and patted his back, and then she whispered that he was a good man. One of the best she knew.

And that's when he began to cry.

He hadn't cried in a very long time . . . it hurt. But it felt good too. Like a cleansing.

Like something was being washed away.

As Hotch's tears spilled onto her shoulder, Emily rubbed her hand up and down his back, trying to offer comfort where there was none to be had. And a moment later, when he picked his head up to wipe his hand across his face, Emily tipped her head back slightly to look him in the eye.

"This is what we do Aaron," she said softly, finding his given name now rolling easily off her tongue, "we make hard choices, and sometimes people die. Sometimes bad people," her gaze shifted as her voice cracked, "sometimes innocent people." Her eyes snapped back, "but we'll get through this, somehow. But only if we stick together. I know that's hard for you. It's hard for me too. I don't, well, I don't like to talk to people about my problems. I don't like to need people. It makes me feel . . ."

She stopped for a moment to take a breath. And when she continued, there was a faint tremor in her voice.

"Weak. I feel weak. And I hate that more than anything. But, I accept that today is a day bigger than me. And I accept that, that," she swallowed, "well, that I need you. And I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is."

And then her lips curved in a faint smile . . . though there was nothing but grief in it.

"But you need me too. And you know it," her voice cracked, "so we're going to stick together," then she gave him another watery smile, though this one wasn't quite so hopeless, "we can be friends," she said with a sniffle, "real ones. Okay?"

Hotch nodded as he quickly sucked in a ragged breath.

"Okay."

And then he pressed his lips to Emily's forehead, and finally he was able to say what he couldn't say a moment before.

"Thank you."

The words were murmured against her skin. And when he pulled back, she just reached up and touched his cheek again.

"It was me or you," she whispered, "and you took the harder road for both of us. So the thanks here is from me _to _you. And you remember that too."

Seeing his eyes widen, Emily nodded.

"I know, of course I know what you're going to take from here. Just like you know what I'm going to take from here. But we can take more than that," she dropped her hand down to cover his fingers.

They were resting on her hip.

"We can take this," she said as she wound them together, "right?"

When they got home, he was going to be all that she had. The only person in the world that would understand the things that they had endured here today . . . the choices that they had made.

The choices that had been made for them.

There was permanent damage done to both of them, of that she was sure. But that's all she was sure of. The rest of it was a black hole.

And she didn't want to get sucked in.

Hotch stared down at Emily for a moment, still blinking the remaining tears from his eyes.

"Right," he nodded again as pulled her back to his chest, "we can take this."

It wasn't going to wash away his sins, it wasn't even going to wash away his guilt. But it was something good, something pure . . . something that he didn't have before. A friend.

And that was a bit of light in the darkness. And that light might be enough to save him.

It might not . . . he kissed the top of her head.

But it was a place to start.

* * *

_A/N 2: So here we are. Not out of the woods yet, not even back up IN the woods yet actually, but we'll address that on the last chapter. And I'd considered, and had briefly inserted, this conversation at the end, as something that they would have when they got outside. But all along, but from the beginning of the story, I was going to have Hotch kill this man. And he was going to kill him in cold blood. That was the crux. It had to be done, but what does doing that, doing all of these terrible things they've done, do to people like them? Basically good and decent people, who were put in a terrible situation, and things happened. And I couldn't have him put a bullet in this guy's head, and then have Emily let him stew about that for the next 2 to 3 hours as they dragged themselves out of that maze. He would have been completely, possibly irrevocably, fucked up by then. So this was her only shot to grab him before he was completely locked away in his little Hotch fortress. _

_So this world, and it is going to continue in at least one if not two more stories, will be much darker than the other ones. Because these you are the sum of your experiences, and their experiences here have given them heavier spirits. But, it's still them. And it's still Girl them. Just not so light. Not for a while anyway._

_As to who the woman was. They might never know. But that doesn't really matter either. Emily killed her, and it wasn't the person that she was trying to kill. And she's not going to forget that._

_So one more chapter here, and I'm really hoping (knock wood on the muse front) to get it up for next weekend and be done here. I've already written some of it, and I know how the rest of it goes, and fortunately the rest of it goes in narrative, which is SO much faster to write than live action and dialogue. But the epilogue will bridge them out of the mine shaft, and back in to the world again. Both figuratively, and literally. We'll tie up the loose ends._

_Til' next time folks. Hope you're enjoying the ride :)_


	12. The Long Road Home

**Author's Note:** The very, _very_ end . . . but just of the story, not the universe. More at the end.

Originally I had planned for mostly a narrative closing here, but, things rarely go completely as planned. So we ended up being 11k+ words because we're pretty much continuing to go 'live' for most of this wrap up. Well, mostly. You'll see :)

* * *

**Story Title Prompt Set #24 (August 2012)**

Author: Anthony Weller

Title Challenge: The Land of Later On

* * *

**The Long Road Home**

It took nearly four hours for them to climb back to the surface.

That was longer than Hotch and Emily had hoped . . . they had been hoping for three . . . but they hadn't anticipated having to stop quite so many times. But they really were in no condition to do anything at all, let alone climb God only knew how far up out of the depths of the earth.

It was an excruciating experience for both of them.

And though Hotch had no idea precisely how long it had taken the UNSUB to drag him down into the pit, Emily did know that she'd made her downward trek in somewhere around forty-five minutes. But again, she was going downhill . . . and she was half running most of the way.

She was no longer capable of running.

Actually she was barely capable of standing upright, let alone walking at anything approaching a brisk pace. And the air in the tunnels was so thick with moisture, that her lungs were screaming after twenty minutes of the upward exertion.

She wanted to scream alongside them after thirty.

And though Hotch did his best to help her along . . . the only time he let go of her was when they stopped for breaks . . . his condition was deteriorating almost as quickly as hers was. The strain of the walk had torn the clot on his calf, and also again opened up the slash in his side.

By the end of the second hour, the two of them had started leaving matching blood trails in the earth.

And with each tiny droplet she spotted, Emily's already wired state, was becoming even more frenetic. She was terrified that if either of them suddenly dropped, that the other one wouldn't have the strength to pick them up and keep them moving. And of course there was no question about one of them going on alone.

It would never happen.

And though they spent their breaks catching their breath, and retying each other's Purell soaked bandages, the latter activity wasn't doing them all that much good.

They kept bleeding through the thin cloth of their repurposed clothes.

So Emily honest to God nearly wept in relief when they finally stumbled up on the exit to the shaft.

The air had become much less humid, and up ahead . . . about twenty paces away . . . there was a faint bit of blue'ish light visible.

The moon.

"We made it." She whispered breathlessly as they stopped for a moment to rest.

"Yeah," Hotch responded while sucking in his own ragged breath, "we did."

And then a few minutes later when they stepped out of the shaft, and the damp night air flooded their lungs, they stopped again. This time Emily had the rifle off her shoulder, and the safety off the gun.

She was covering Hotch.

Covering him while he leaned down to confirm what was already obvious from the glassy eyes staring up at them in the reflection from the flashlight.

Lonnie was dead.

His wounds might have initially been survivable . . . but not without treatment. An autopsy would tell the full tale, but most likely he had bled out. But of course he'd been lying there in the mud for close to five hours without so much as a tourniquet.

His death under those circumstances, was not unexpected.

Not that Emily felt any better about it. In fact she was surprised to feel a fresh wave of grief wash over her. Not for the world's loss of Lonnie . . . there was no loss there . . . but just that it was another body for their count.

And also though . . . she sniffled slightly . . . just that he got away with it. Nobody would ever really know what a monster he was.

There would be no trial.

There would be no punishment.

But then as Emily tried to blink away the unwelcome burning in her eyes, she realized that there really was no punishment that would have fit these crimes.

Nothing earthly would do.

So perhaps this day, this day where this terrible man had finally been overpowered by two of his victims . . . the victims here being a pair of FBI agents who had taken a random wrong turn off the highway . . . was as close to a judgment day that Lonnie would ever reach.

At least on this plane of existence.

And when Emily looked up and across the clearing to the other body lying in the muck, she knew . . . even from that distance . . . that Tom was dead too.

He was too still.

Of course though, they checked him too . . . because they had to be sure. So they limped over, wincing and grinding their teeth . . . their movements even slower now as time was continuing to pass, and the cooler air was beginning to stiffen their joints.

Emily was feeling every one of her thirty-eight years.

But once Hotch had pressed his fingers against that waxy skin, and shaken his head for a second time, she . . . unexpectedly . . . began to cry.

It wasn't sobbing . . . just a quiet weeping. The sound of her soul dying a slow death.

Nothing important.

"That's five," she murmured with a swipe of her hand across her face.

But Hotch then shook his head for a third time.

"Six," he whispered back, his gaze snapping up to catch hers in the moonlight. She stared for a moment with watery eyes, counting again . . . and again . . . and then the stab of pain pressed into her gut.

The man in the tunnel.

The man with no face.

His death was on their list too . . . they owned that one. Good CHRIST, she thought not for the first time, but how the hell were they ever going to get beyond this?!

How were they ever going to go back to anything resembling their lives before?

Emily had no answers to those questions . . . not even an inkling of what their future held. And then she saw in front of her, Hotch slowly . . . and somewhat unsteadily . . . coming back up to his feet. He reached out and took her hand again.

His eyes were soft . . . sad.

Then his fingers curled around hers . . . and hers around his . . . and he pulled her back to his chest. And he held her as he had down in the tunnel.

"We need to keep moving," he murmured against her hair.

Though the physical pain in his voice was clear, his speech was steady. And for the combination of those two acts . . . for making that effort to reach out to her, even as he tried to cut his emotions away . . . she shifted around to hug him as she had before.

He needed it.

They both did.

So for a minute . . . perhaps two . . . they stood there in the middle of the forest. The pine trees were dripping down on their heads . . . a dead man was cooling by their feet.

They were alone in the world.

Or at least it felt like it. She wondered how long that feeling would last.

Years maybe . . . if not longer.

But then Hotch seemed to get a cramp. He winced and hissed, and feeling him freeze up for that moment with his body resting against hers, Emily remembered that she wasn't the only one that was hurt. He'd taken terrible a beating . . . two of them actually. Even in the shadows down in the tunnels, when she was fixing his bandages, she'd seen the ugly bruises forming on his chest and abdomen. And thinking about those marks again, a faintly metallic taste suddenly filled her mouth.

Adrenaline.

_What if there was internal damage? What if he was bleeding to death from the inside and she couldn't even see it?_

The thoughts came with a fresh slice of panic. And with that panic, came a nearly overwhelming need to again check his injures.

To see if she could see the invisible.

So her hands slid down his back, and her fingers moved to his front, fumbling along the lower edge of his t-shirt.

Then she stepped back slightly to lift the blood stained fabric from his skin.

And feeling a fresh ache in her chest, she reached out. Her touch was gentle as she ran the tips of her fingers over the purple and black marks.

She was particularly worried about the black ones.

"Can you taste blood?" She asked worriedly when her eyes locked onto the largest of the bruises on his sternum.

Hotch was quiet for a minute, his face blank, and then she saw him nod.

"A little. But one of my molars is loose, and I think I bit my tongue," he shrugged, almost like he didn't care, "the blood could be from anywhere."

Knowing then that that there was nothing to be done either way . . . internal injuries were beyond the reach of her little bottle of hand sanitizer . . . Emily's hand fell down. And then she fixed his t-shirt, biting her lip while she wished that she had something else to cover him in.

The air was cool and he was losing heat.

And though she knew that he was most worried about her condition . . . and she had admittedly been losing blood longer than he . . . she was more worried about his.

By her estimation, his body had taken the greater hits. And he was still putting out the greater exertion. Trying to help her, trying keep her moving.

Trying to keep her from dropping dead on this tiny mountain.

They began walking again then. Hotch's arm was wrapped around her waist and he was holding her to his uninjured side, obviously trying to take some of the burden off of her forward momentum. Her eyes started to sting again.

He really was a very sweet man. Very chivalrous.

She just hoped that chivalry wouldn't kill him.

Slowly they moved through the quiet forest, their breath still coming in pants and gasps as they shuffled and limped along. All the while Emily's eyes were darting this way and that, listening to the buzz of the insects and occasional calls from the wildlife.

She was trying to see into the trees. Watching for . . . well, she didn't know what really. She wasn't so worried about the animals . . . not the four legged variety anyway. And the two legged kind, the UNSUBs, they were all dead. They had to be. If there was another one in the shaft, he . . . or she . . . would have found them before they got out.

Really, they wouldn't have gotten out.

Still though, she was anxious . . . and frightened. And she didn't know if she had concrete reasons to be afraid . . . if it was instinct tickling the vertebrae on her spine . . . or if it was just the trauma of the day. Perhaps anxious and frightened was going to be her new regular state of being.

And how horrible that would be if it was.

In an effort to distract herself from the new psychological damage, both real and speculative, Emily took a slow, deep breath of that cool air. She hoped that it would rejuvenate her, reoxygenate her lungs . . . her body.

Make her feel better.

But it didn't. It just hurt.

Breathing hurt. She didn't know if that was a result of her injuries, or if that was also just her life as it now was.

Probably a bit both.

Feeling an odd sensation unexpectedly settling onto her skin, Emily's brow wrinkled as she reached up to wipe her hand across her cheek . . . it was all wet. Not tears though, she realized. It was the pine trees . . . it was a thicker overhang, and the rain had collected in a heavier concentration.

Though as she tried to wipe the moisture from her fingers, off on her pants, Emily deduced that the mixture falling, was partly sap, as well as the rainfall from earlier.

Everything around them was still soaked.

So much so that their boots were sticking in the thick muck as they staggered along. They'd now reached probably the halfway point of the old mining road that they'd hiked in on so many hours before.

Every step now though . . . at least by Emily's perspective . . . seemed to be harder and harder to make. It was almost like they weren't supposed to leave.

Like something wanted them to stay.

Feeling a fresh shiver run down her spine at the thought, she hurriedly reached into the ratty bag of one serial killer, to pull out the hunting knife from another.

This was the knife that had left the gash in Hotch's side.

She had been praying that he wasn't going to get an infection.

And though Hotch still had her pistol out . . . and they had the rifles on their shoulders . . . Emily felt a flood of relief at having her own close quarters weapon handy again. It wasn't like her to allow her safety to be dependent on people.

And that fact held true even if Hotch had stopped being just, people.

But then feeling the tension flood his body as he looked down to see the knife in her hand, Emily quickly moved to alleviate any new worries that she was giving him.

They had enough of those already.

"It's nothing," she said with a quick shake of her head, "just . . . the creeps."

The creeps. What a funny phrase she thought . . . and then suddenly she laughed.

Though nothing was at all funny.

And the sound of that laugh, the pitch and the tremor, it brought a hot flood of tears to her eyes. It was a crazy sound.

It scared the shit out of her.

Her free hand came up to clamp over her mouth . . . the laughter died away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as her hand fell back down, "I . . ."

But she didn't get anything else out. Hotch just pressed a finger to her lips.

His eyes were watering too.

"No," he shook his head, "no apologies. You be yourself around me," he swallowed, "you promise me that. Don't hide things from me. If you feel yourself slipping, you let me know," he gave her a sad smile. "I'll go with you, okay?"

If they were going to do this, if they were going to be true friends and keep each other sane, then that meant that sometimes they might have to go a little _in_sane for a while.

It was the only way out of this world full of madness.

And as he saw a tear spill over right before Emily whispered, "okay," Hotch felt a new pain in his gut. Though this one had nothing to do with his injuries. He'd just suddenly flashed on Emily as she was that afternoon when she'd handed him the bag of pretzels. Back then she was completely sane, and not skirting the world of just a tiny bit unwell.

But of course she wasn't a killer then . . . neither was he.

Irony notwithstanding, he would kill to go back to that moment again.

And though it hurt to have the pressure against his chest, Hotch shifted her closer then and patted her side . . . as though physical proximity would fix what was now wrong with them. Nothing would fix what was now wrong with them, nothing except perhaps time.

And that they had in spades.

Or at least they would if they didn't bleed to death before they got back out into the world.

"Let's see if we can move a little faster," he whispered while biting back a groan at the pull in his stab wound, "we're not going to be mobile much longer."

"Right," Emily cleared her throat and sucked in another painful breath.

Then they tried moving close to double time, but Hotch's limp was becoming more pronounced with each new step. And the faster they tried to move, the more they kept stumbling and sliding over the mud and the rocks.

It was like trying to run in quick sand . . . and they weren't even really trying to run.

It was a farce.

And then Emily's boot got caught in a tree root . . . and before Hotch could scramble to catch her . . . his reflexes were not what they were . . . she went down face first.

And with her bad arm the only one with a free hand . . . after everything that had happened, she was terrified to lose a weapon . . . that's the arm she put out to try and catch herself.

An explosion of pain shot through her traumatized nerve endings.

She screamed.

It was followed immediately by sobs of pain when she tried to push herself back and off her knees. But she was mired down in the mud.

And then she felt Hotch's arm hook around her waist . . . and he was pulling her back.

"Oh Prentiss," Hotch murmured as he dropped down to the muck and pulled her to his chest. They just could not catch a break. And though they had to keep going, he was afraid of causing her more pain by pulling her back up too soon. So he just sat on the ground and held her while she cried and cradled her injured arm. There was nothing he could do to help her, so he just kept the flashlight moving on the shadows around them.

They were vulnerable.

Again.

Finally, some minutes later, he saw her attempting to take deeper breaths. His attention then snapped back fully to the woman in his arms.

"Think you can get up now?"

His words were soft, trying not to put pressure on her. Christ knew that they needed to get to the hospital, but it wasn't going to help anything if he made her feel like shit for falling.

Then he saw Emily sniffle and nod, but she didn't say anything. It was a subdued response.

And her eyes were on the ground.

And he saw then that she was embarrassed. And he hated that she was going to carry that memory too. So as they slowly pushed themselves back up to their knees, he put his hand out and touched her cheek.

She stopped moving.

Slowly her gaze came up, again catching his in the bright moonlight cutting through the overhang. One side of his lip curved ever so slightly.

"It was the tree's fault."

Feeling a fresh burn to her eyes . . . though these tears were the first in hours not fueled by pain or grief . . . Emily immediately gave Hotch a watery smile.

"Thank you," she whispered. But he just brushed it off with a shake of his head. Then his hand fell off her cheek . . . he took a deep, raspy breath . . . and pushed himself back up to his feet.

After a few deep inhalations and one slow exhalation, he reached down and pulled Emily up beside him. She was shaking and huddled over like an old woman.

With his brow now creased with a fresh worry, Hotch quickly rubbed his hands up and down Emily's arms. He was trying to warm her up.

The air had gotten colder just since they'd come up out of the shaft. But of course it was moving in on midnight, and they'd been walking for at least forty minutes . . . their panting breaths were now visible puffs of air.

And seeing the effects on Emily's body . . . and for the first time noting the gooseflesh on his own arms . . . Hotch began to start seriously worrying about exposure. Some part of his brain then tried to work out if the layer of cold mud now covering them would provide some insulation, or just suck the heat from their bodies.

Probably the latter.

That was about how their day was going. So with that thought . . . that they couldn't afford a core temperature drop on top of everything else . . . before they started moving again, he took a second to try to wipe the worst of the mud off of them.

He didn't have much luck.

The gunk was thick and sticky with sap, pine needles, and God only knew what chemicals that had leached into the earth from all of the mining equipment that had passed through.

It was something that looked coppery in the light, but Hotch didn't think it was copper.

Finally he looked back at Emily, still with gunk covering half of her body, and shook his head.

"Fuck it," he muttered, and she nodded.

"We'll still be freezing either way," she murmured back. And with that realization . . . that body heat might help offset that other heat loss a little . . . he again pulled her against his side.

And then they started forward once more.

Though this time Hotch had a much tighter grasp around Emily's waist, and a much closer eye to the unevenness of the ground in front of them.

They couldn't afford another fall.

They couldn't afford a lot of things. To lose any more blood . . . or any more time. But he knew that it couldn't be too much farther out to the truck. The initial hike in wasn't a great distance, it's just that it was taking them so much longer this time around. But it couldn't be more than another fifty paces maybe . . . he calculated in his head . . . it couldn't be further than that.

And so he began to count.

It was something to do. A task to keep his mind busy.

When he got to twenty-seven steps, Emily was shaking violently under his arm . . . by thirty-four steps, he was ready to fall back into the mud . . . but then they got to forty-six steps.

And that's when they came around a slight curve in the road . . . and ahead of them . . . perhaps another ten paces, was the truck.

_Thank you Christ!_

They staggered along the rest of the way, Emily's teeth now chattering loudly as she huddled against him.

The shaking worried him . . . it worried him a lot.

She'd lost so much blood, and then she was down in that mud. And she had no fat on her at all.

_Blood and mud. _

The words caught in Hotch's head for a moment. But he shook them away.

They were too close now to get caught up in thinking.

He just had to keep moving.

Once they reached the pickup, Hotch let go of Emily to yank open the driver's side door . . . that action came with a creak that sliced through the silence of the forest.

And then there was the brightness of the cab light.

It was like a beacon being shown in the darkness.

And for a moment they both froze, as though they had just brought attention to themselves. As though somebody else from this nightmarish family was now going to come running out with a pickaxe to try and stop them from leaving.

Ordinarily that would be a paranoid thought. But given all that had happened, and all of the people that _had _tried to kill them that day, it wasn't a completely irrational one. So Hotch pushed Emily slightly behind him as he waited for just a second, watching the brush. Watching for movement.

Nothing.

He turned back around, hurriedly tucking Emily's gun into his waistband before he slipped his arm around her back. Then he helped her up and inside the truck.

While he turned around to check the woods again, she slowly pulled herself across the bench seat.

"Okay," she half gasped, half whispered . . . and he turned back to see big, fat droplets of crimson that she'd left smeared on the seat and the dashboard. He felt a fresh stab of fear.

She shouldn't be bleeding like that again.

She hadn't been bleeding that badly in hours.

So after they'd locked themselves in, and Hotch had started the ignition . . . he'd pulled the keys from a dead Lonnie's pocket . . . he turned the cab light back on again. Then he turned to Emily.

"Let me see your arm."

She shifted slightly, biting into her lip as he reached over to loosen the belt . . . and then tighten it again.

This time going back to one of the notches that he'd used when she'd first been shot . . . and then he pulled it one further than that. It was as tight as he could make it.

And seeing her eyes immediately water in response, he slipped his hand down to squeeze her fingers.

"I know it hurts," he whispered, "I'm sorry, but Emily, you _cannot_ afford to lose any more blood. I'm amazed that you're still conscious. Now," he dropped her hand to reach across and get the passenger's seatbelt, "we should hopefully be able to get to a hospital within the next forty or fifty minutes. I know that seems like a long time, but," he started yanking the strap down, "we need to be realistic. So we'll just leave this pressure on until we get back out to the highway on-ramp. I'll loosen it a notch then."

If he didn't loosen it, then she'd potentially lose the whole arm. But really, he was more concerned about her life at the moment than the limb.

Though from the look on Emily's face, he wasn't so sure that she would have agreed with his assessment.

But fortunately she didn't argue with him . . . she might not have had the energy. So once he'd slipped the belt across her chest and around her waist . . . careful to pull the strap down and away from her shoulder . . . he clicked the metal into the square lock on the seat.

Then he turned back to grab his own belt.

Another quick check of Emily's condition showed her fighting the rapid blinks . . . she wasn't long from passing out.

"Prentiss," he raised his voice slightly as he clicked off the overhead light, "I need you to stay awake for me, okay? It's just a little bit longer until we get off this mountain," he reached for the shift, "up the road, around the tree, and back to the highway." He took his foot off the break, "it's not so far. You can stay awake, right? Just stay with me until we get help."

If he lost her after all this, if she died literally minutes from them getting help, he didn't know what he would do.

"I think so," Emily murmured back as the truck began to move, "but please hurry. It smells like death in here."

Hotch had nothing to say to that . . . because it did indeed smell like death in there. Only God now knew how many rotting limbs and corpses had been carted around in the back of that truck.

More than he could bear to think about.

So he made himself NOT think about it. He made himself not think about anything. He just focused on driving. A task he ordinarily could perform completely on autopilot, now took all of his attention.

Emily wasn't the only one on the verge of drifting away.

Now that they were out of danger, the adrenaline that had been pumping for hours, was now fading. And adrenaline was really all that had been keeping him going.

His body so badly wanted to shut down.

But there's still Emily to take care of . . . his conscience suddenly reminded him . . . and if he passed out driving, then he was going to kill her.

And that would be seven.

The thought was enough to send a fresh jolt through his body. His eyes popped open wide again. And so with that new artificial clarity . . . some days it felt like all clarity was artificial . . . Hotch put his foot down on the accelerator. He was driving as fast as he could manage in the darkness, pulling up his memories of the drive in . . . and reversing them.

The straight, bumpy road . . . that went on for a couple minutes . . . and then he slowed as he saw the clearing . . . and then a turn. This time it went to the right.

And then down.

Down, down . . . down the little mountain. Twisting and turning, bouncing along.

Thank God for the seatbelts.

And then they reached the bottom. The main road. The one where they'd stumbled over the human totem pole.

The one where they'd been kidnapped.

Emily's left hand fell onto his thigh . . . his right hand fell down to cover it.

He left it there.

And then he took his foot off the brake, and turned the truck again. This time heading back out towards the highway.

The road was still wet . . . and the darkness was still all consuming . . . though at least here they were on pavement again.

So he took advantage of that.

He dropped his foot down until they were going fifty, but after about five minutes of that speed, Emily's fingers pressed into his leg . . . he eased up.

She was warning him . . . the tree would be coming up soon.

The UNSUBs had never left them . . . and they would have been the only road crews around here . . . so it had to still be blocking the road. And sure enough . . . he downshifted as his foot pressed hard on the brake . . . it was still there as they'd left it.

As was their car.

He pulled far to the outside, slowing to a near stop . . . it was the only way to maneuver around the tree. And as the branches brushed against the passenger side window, Emily pulled her hand away from his leg. Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch saw her leaning the other way. Her hand was pressing against the glass.

He wondered what she was thinking.

He didn't dare ask.

Once they'd cleared the oak . . . a tight squeeze . . . for the first time, Hotch started to feel something akin to genuine hope.

They were going to make it. It was a clear shot now to the highway.

They were almost back to the real world.

He fumbled his hand across the seat, reaching again for Emily's fingers.

"Not too much further."

She didn't answer, but her hand did tighten around his . . . so at least he knew that she was still conscious. So on he drove . . . and finally the high beams flashed over the back of the battered metal sign that they'd seen when they'd first gotten off the highway.

Gas and lodging . . . death and dismemberment. Hell, they were all the same thing out here in the woods guys!

Feeling a little tickle of manic laughter begin to rise up in his throat . . . it was that same laughter Emily had fallen into before . . . Hotch coughed and blinked, trying to focus on such a simple thing.

Maintaining his sanity.

But then he pulled to a full stop in the middle of the road . . . because he'd just realized . . . he didn't how the FUCK to get back up to the highway.

At least not without killing them.

Because the exit ramp they had come down was obviously one way . . . and he couldn't see an option taking them back up to the other side of the Interstate. And he sure as hell wasn't going to start blindly driving around in the dark!

His head began to get cloudy with panic . . . how the FUCK were they going to get out of here?!

But then Emily squeezed his hand, and her soft voice cut into the frenetic haze settling onto his brain.

"Just go back up the way we came," she murmured, clearly back to the blinks again, "odds are nobody's coming this way. And if they are, the worst that happens," she huffed humorlessly, "we die in a head on collision."

He looked across the seat . . . she was right. That _was_ the worst that could happen. And given their day so far, it would barely be a blip on the bad news radar.

The thought that they might actually hurt somebody else in a crash . . . a seven or an eight . . . barely crossed his mind.

So he said, "okay," and took his foot off the brake. Then he swung around . . . sent up a prayer . . . and headed back up the ramp.

Some part of him was a little anxious about the collision thing . . . it was twisting, blind curve with a nasty drop off to the side . . . but mostly he was just feeling relief wash over him.

They were almost out.

Almost back in the world of lights and hospitals, and cell phones . . . and nobody was trying to kill them. Well, most days anyway.

He started to hear noise . . . traffic.

And then they curved around the last thirty feet . . . and they were out. Sodium lamps lining the highway . . . cars and trucks screaming by in both directions.

It was beautiful.

He blinked to try and focus . . . which way? And then again, Emily's voice.

"Just drive Aaron. But stay to the far right," she sucked in a breath, "you're about to pass out."

Hotch blinked again . . . pass out. What was she . . .? And then he realized just how SLOWLY his brain was processing everything. That she had to keep telling him what to do.

And then there was the blinking . . . and the haze . . . she was right.

He was on the verge of passing out.

But they couldn't stop now. They had no cell phones to call for help, and if he pulled off to the breakdown lane, the troopers might not find them for hours.

And they didn't have hours.

They'd end up like Lonnie and Tom.

So he did as she said, he drove. And staying far to the right, hugging the breakdown lane, they made another three or four miles. But still there was no sign for a hospital . . . or a state police barracks . . . and despair began to fill him. Though he knew cities and towns were always accessed by an exit ramp . . . he was absolutely TERRIFIED of pulling off on another exit ramp.

Not if he couldn't see EXACTLY where they were going to end up.

But as the cloud started to settle in over his brain, he knew that they had just hit a new world of trouble.

"I'm sorry Emily," he slurred . . . and then the wheel began to slip.

Emily had energy left to scream as they went flying across three . . . fortunately wide open . . . lanes of highway.

His eyes popped open again . . . but just for a second . . . just long enough to feel the wheel being jerked the other way. They started moving back to the right . . . but Emily was in no state to drive either.

And his foot was still on the gas.

The last thing he saw was the world turning upside down.

Fuck.

/*/*/*/*

Hotch's eyes popped open onto clean white tiles. They had little dots in them . . . ceiling tiles.

Hospital.

The word came to him as the smell of disinfectant filled his nose. Then he blinked once . . . twice . . . and slowly turned his head.

Haley was sitting in the chair next the bed.

She was reading a magazine.

He cleared his throat . . . or tried to anyway, it was too dry to do more than croak . . . and her eyes snapped up to his.

"Aaron!" she exclaimed in surprise, her hand reaching out to touch his arm. The magazine pages fluttered as they fell to the floor, "you're awake! How do you feel?!"

Hotch stared at her for a moment, feeling groggy and out of sorts, but his memories were still fully intact. So his mind was clear enough to know one thing . . . he didn't want to see his wife. Not now. That was his other life. His other world.

And he knew that he was still in this one.

He blinked again and licked his lips.

"Where's Emily?"

His voice was hoarse, but again his throat was dry. The words ended up coming out as barely a whisper. He wanted some water. He felt dehydrated. And though his brain was fuzzy, and he was in pain . . . a lot of pain . . . the profiler in him was still working overtime.

That guy never could get off the clock.

And that guy took note of the clenching of his wife's hand, the curling of her fingers back into a fist . . . and then there was the shift of emotions that ran across her face.

Hurt. Rejected, and . . . something. Something else. Something that he knew should interest him, but at the moment . . . didn't. That was for the other world. So he ignored it . . . and licked his lips again.

Where was that water? And where was Emily?

He needed to find her.

These were the things that mattered, reading the full range of expressions on his wife's face, did not. And he was about to ask Haley again about Emily, when suddenly she stood up. She took two steps . . . and pulled back the white curtain.

And there in the bed next to him . . . with bandages on her bruised face, and tubes running into her black and blue arms . . . was the woman he was looking for.

He winced.

Seeing her like that . . . so pale and vulnerable . . . broken. It made his stomach hurt.

"She woke up this morning," Haley said softly, "she was in the room next door. JJ was sitting with her. And she started screaming, she was completely incoherent except for your name. It must have been a nightmare. But even though she was conscious, she didn't seem to be coming out of it. Finally they decided to roll her in here . . ." Haley's voice faded, "she stopped screaming the moment that she saw you. And then she cried herself back to sleep."

Those screams were the worst sound that Haley had ever heard . . . the worst sound that she could _imagine_ hearing. And it wasn't just her. Aaron's team, they were all there, they'd set up camp in the hospital waiting room . . . and the rest of them had all come running. And the looks on their faces . . . she knew that they were just as traumatized by that sound as she was.

And given what they did for a living . . . Haley's eyes snapped away from the woman in the bed . . . that terrified her probably more than anything.

With a faint biting of her lip, Haley's gaze traveled back over to her husband. She'd been so worried about him. He'd looked so UN-Aaron'like lying in that bed. He had always been so physically strong . . . and now he looked weak.

Almost broken.

After she'd arrived . . . and gotten over the shock of his appearance . . . she'd stayed with him because she thought that he'd be happy to see her. Even with all of their problems, all of the fighting . . . all of the plans that she'd been making in her head . . . he was still the father of her child. And she still cared about him, very much. So she'd thought that it would be best if it was _her_ face that he saw when he first opened his eyes. That it would be a comfort.

But now she wasn't so sure about that decision.

Because he hadn't looked happy to see her . . . and now he wasn't looking at her at all. He was looking at Emily.

His eyes had begun to water.

Haley's followed suit.

"What happened to you two Aaron?" she whispered, the stress clear in her voice, "Nobody knows. All they know is that you were in an accident on the highway in a pickup truck that they can't trace. A pickup truck that was covered in dried blood. It rolled into a ditch, and," her voice began to thicken, "they found you unconscious. Both shot, and beaten, and stabbed . . . and nobody knows why. Nobody knows where you've been," her voice broke, "please tell me where you went, Aaron."

For a moment her husband said nothing back. And then . . . still staring at Emily . . . he responded softly.

"Is she all right? Is her arm okay? She didn't," he tried to clear over the lump in his throat, "lose it, right? It's still there?"

He'd forgotten to loosen the belt . . . his head had gotten too foggy, and he forgot.

Jesus Christ, he forgot to fix her arm!

Haley stared at the man that she'd been married to for almost twenty years, and she realized then . . . he didn't care about her questions. He wasn't interested in them. He was a thousand miles away.

Off somewhere with the woman lying in the next hospital bed.

Haley wondered if he'd be coming back to her . . . and then she wondered if she really wanted him.

The thought shamed her . . . but there was no surprise there. Not really. Their marriage wasn't suddenly 'a good one' just because he was hurt. And though she felt horrible that he was in this hospital bed . . . no matter what happened between them, she would never wish him any harm . . . it was becoming clear that something had happened to bond these two people, in a way that she knew they weren't before Aaron had left for this trip.

Her husband's only mistress had ever been his job.

But now the way he was staring, and the way she'd needed to see him to stop screaming.

Something truly horrific had gone on out there.

And though she hated herself for it . . . hated that it was even _in _her . . . Haley was feeling hurt. And jealous. Jealous of this woman who had suffered God only knew what kind of horrendous physical torture, and emotional trauma. And Haley was jealous of this poor woman because . . . even in her sleep . . . she was capable of holding her husband's complete, and undivided, attention.

It had been years since Haley could say the same.

The tears that were hovering, began to pool in her eyes.

"She's okay," she finally whispered back, trying to fight crack in her voice, "her arm's okay. Or, they said it will be with physical therapy. Same with your leg. They gave you both fluids and dressed your wounds," she cleared her throat, "you have some stitches, a lot of stiches actually, but," she bit her lip, "you had a lot of injuries. Um, and . . ." her feet shuffled as her fingers wound together, "uh, we're in Shreveport. It was the closest trauma center. Penelope figured out that you landed here when your plane was diverted, and you rented a car and Emily bought some food, but that's the last she was able to track you."

He still said nothing . . . and the silence was killing her . . . so she just started babbling.

"There are um, detectives that want to talk to you. Morgan told them that he'd call when you woke up. You've both been completely out for the last two days. The doctors said it wasn't really, uh anything medical, just . . . you shut down. I flew in with the team yesterday morning after they'd identified your IDs through the local field office. Jack's home with my . . ."

And then she stopped . . . because she realized . . . he still wasn't listening. He still didn't care.

Not about any of it.

After she'd said that Emily was okay, his eyes had fallen shut. And when he opened them again, she saw that he was again just staring across the little aisle.

He was still a thousand miles away.

"I'm going to go find the nurse," she whispered as a tear finally slipped down her cheek, "you should, uh, they should check you."

And then she hurried out, wiping her hand across her face just before she reached for the door.

Hotch waited until his wife was gone, and then he bit his lip and pushed his blankets back. Slowly, he sat up, and swung his legs over to the floor.

His head was pounding, and his side hurt . . . like he was pulling the skin apart. But he couldn't feel any wetness, so he figured it was just the stitches catching.

His eyes dropped down.

Now that his mind was clearing, he took note of the white johnnie that they'd dressed him in. And he could see that most of his right leg had been shaved and there was a large bandage wrapped around his calf.

The gun shot.

It ached. He also had on a neck brace . . . he tossed that onto the floor . . . and then he reached up to touch his hairline, feeling along and to the back . . . there were at least a dozen stitches in his scalp. And those were in three different places. Probably part from the beatings, and also . . . his fingers slid down . . . there were two on his cheek, and a couple over his brow . . . so maybe more trauma in the accident.

Either way . . . his arm fell down . . . they were really itchy.

He sucked in a breath, and then reached over to pick up the plastic cup of water by the bed. He gulped it down. Then he placed the cup back on the table and grabbed for the IV stand.

Though he was still thirsty . . . he hadn't believed that he could BE this thirsty . . . he knew that Haley would be back soon. And she wouldn't be alone.

So with a slow exhale, he pushed himself up and to his feet.

For a second he stood here . . . feeling the world tilting slightly to the side . . . trying to get used to being vertical and somewhat drugged up.

Once he was sure that he was steady on his feet, or, at least steady enough, he used his IV stand to shuffle barefoot over to the other bed.

The floor was cold.

With his free hand, he pushed the curtain back a little further. And seeing the tears that had begun running down Emily's face, he knew that she was having another nightmare.

How many had this been since he'd last seen her?

Haley said that she'd woken up screaming this morning, but were there others before that? Had she just been trapped in her mind since they'd arrived? Did she think that he'd abandoned her?

That he'd left her there alone . . . his eyes started to burn . . . down in the dark.

With his teeth grinding into his lip, he shuffled another two steps. Then he gently lowered himself down onto the side of the bed. Fortunately he had his boxers, but the blanket was scratchy on his legs. He reached up, his stiches pulling again as his fingers brushed her tears away.

"I'm back Emily," he whispered, "and I'm sorry I left you," his voice started to catch and he cleared it, "but I'm here now," he cupped her cheek, trying to be mindful of the bruising, "you're not alone anymore. You can wake up now."

It took a second of him whispering and stroking his thumb along her jaw . . . but then suddenly her eyes popped open.

They locked onto his.

For a moment all he could see there was abject terror . . . and he knew that she was stuck up on that terrible mountain.

Again.

But then she blinked, and her watery eyes widened in recognition.

"You're here."

Though her voice was as hoarse as his was, the shock in her tone was obvious.

"Yeah," he nodded, "I'm here." Then he tipped his head.

"Where did you think I was?"

She bit her lip, her eyes sliding away from his and down to the blanket he was sitting on.

"Dead," she murmured back, "you were dead. Lonnie killed you with that shotgun. And then," she swallowed, "Tom dragged me away. He dragged me into the woods, and then down into the pit. And you were dead . . . and I wished I was too."

Hotch closed his eyes.

Jesus Christ.

When he opened his eyes again, his voice was low, gentle.

"How many times have you had that dream Emily?"

"I don't know," she chewed her lip, "more than once. But I can't really remember anything before this morning. I mean," she jiggled her head slightly, "I don't remember the hospital before this morning. The rest of it," her eyes snapped back to his, "I remember all of that just fine."

Hearing a slight commotion coming down the hallway . . . and realizing that the team was about to come running in . . . Emily's hand creeped out from under the blanket.

Hotch picked it up.

Their fingers wound together as they had in the woods. And when their room was suddenly flooded with people that they knew, and people that they didn't . . . everyone in a state, stumbling over their questions, not noticing that they were providing no answers . . . they kept that link.

That tether.

And then just as quickly the nurse was waving everyone back out. And Hotch could have kissed her for that. Because they weren't ready yet.

They needed a minute.

They actually needed a hell of a lot longer than that, but there were still people alive out there . . . hopefully. And they needed to send them help.

So once the nurse had given them water and the doctor checked their vitals and their dressings, the nurse helped them to the bathroom and back. Then the doctor left, and the nurse had a fruitless argument with Hotch about going back to his own bad . . . though it wasn't so much an argument, as him simply flat out ignoring her request.

After all that . . . about fifteen minutes . . . they were cleared for 'visitors.' But Hotch didn't want 'visitors.' He wasn't going to do all of this in front of a crowd, not now.

Not today.

So as the woman in the peach scrubs started towards the door, Hotch asked her to wait for a moment. She looked back at them, he looked over at Emily.

"Morgan?"

Though Gideon was the obvious choice . . . he had come with the team, and he was second in command . . . Hotch wanted nothing to do with him right now. Because if not for Jason going AWOL, then he wouldn't have had to take his place at that parole hearing.

And none of this would have happened.

It was irrational . . . and unfair, Jason too had suffered a terrible trauma . . . but that's simply the way it was.

Emily looked back at Hotch. She blinked, and then nodded.

"Yeah," her teeth sunk into lip. "Morgan."

Eventually they would have to tell all of them, plus the local police, an inquest, an FBI review board . . . and really, the list went on and on. But for now . . . she fixed the blankets back up tightly over her chest . . . they would start with Derek. He could get the search going . . . and he would clean up the bodies that they had left.

Because that's really what they were choosing.

The person who was going to go and clean up their mess.

And though she hated to put this on him . . . and she knew that Hotch did too . . . he was really the only one. It wasn't a task for JJ or Spencer, and as pissed off as Emily was at Gideon for taking off, she knew that he was in no condition psychologically to step up here.

He was still too fucked up from what had happened before.

'Yeah,' she huffed bitterly to herself, 'well thanks for letting us join the God damn club buddy.'

But she swallowed her bitterness when she saw the look on Hotch's face . . . guilt. Guilt that he was sending Derek off to do the job that he should be doing.

So she reached over and picked up his hand again. Though this time she also shifted the blankets around to cover them up. This development between them was their business.

It didn't need to be shared with the team.

And so it began. The nurse stepped out, and a few seconds later Derek came back alone. And they told him their story. And then he went back and he told the others. And on it went.

Agency to agency . . . up to the governor's office, and back to Washington.

Nobody outside the team believed them . . . or more particularly, nobody outside the team _wanted_ to believe them. At least not right away. It was just too horrible to contemplate. But of course nobody outside the team contemplated these horrific things on a daily basis.

Their nightmarish world was a foreign one to the locals . . . and nobody wanted to learn the language.

But still, they were highly respected members of a federal law enforcement agency . . . he was a division chief, her an ambassador's daughter . . . their word was above reproach.

So red tape was cut as quickly as could be managed. A qualified interagency search party was formed, old maps were collected, mining experts were consulted, and equipment was gathered.

And then twelve hours later . . . they began to follow the breadcrumbs.

Back to the off-ramp, to the tree in the road . . . their rental car. Then further on, the human totem . . . by then the heads were rotting like old pumpkins, Derek's words . . . and finally the turn up the little mountain. The clearing . . . the access road . . . the decomposing bodies of two serial killers.

And then . . . the shaft.

It was the worst site that they could imagine trying to search. It took days to excavate. But slowly, out came the bodies . . . stacks of them. Nobody knew how many. More than two hundred, less than five. The problem was that they were in pieces. And some of them were old.

So, VERY, old.

Hunting humans for sport seemed to have been a family tradition, one that went back decades. Since the mine had closed perhaps, so maybe forty years of human hunting.

Maybe fifty.

Either way, it was a perfect world for them. On the cusp of a protected national forest, far off the Interstate . . . no incorporated towns for miles around.

Everybody had left when the mines shut down.

Well, most everybody. Reid's researched showed that at least a few hundred people had stayed behind in that general area. That was in the last complete census he could find.

Back in 1952.

And those that chose to stay, they were the type that didn't mingle much with the outside world anyway. So nobody out in the world missed them when they were gone.

And God only knew when they'd been taken.

Somehow this family had continued to reproduce through the decades. And though their insanity had to have been _mostly_ a product of their upbringing . . . again, butchery was the family pastime . . . it was also possible that there was inbreeding. Actually, inbreeding was likely under the circumstances of their physical isolation . . . but that was a theory that wouldn't be proven for weeks.

Not until the DNA tests were complete.

So they moved on to other theories. Stressors didn't seem to be relevant, this was just the way they were. And they had no idea how long they had been the way they were . . . operating out in the open, that is. But this generation certainly had shown no fear at all of badges or other people's guns. So it was clear that it had been a long time since anyone had held ANY authority over them.

And with no law to speak of, there was nothing to stop their evolution.

Perfect monsters, in their perfect little world.

From the IDs discovered down in the pit . . . and the automobile graveyard they discovered out in another clearing in the forest . . . they had been feeding off of anyone and everyone that came across their path. Campers and hunters . . . and then the people like Hotch and Emily.

The ones that had taken a wrong turn.

And paid dearly for it.

On their third day in the hospital, Hotch sent Haley home. He waited until Emily was asleep, and then he told his wife that he had to stay at least through the inquest, which wouldn't be for another week, and she might as well get home to Jack. And as he again saw that shift on her face, he knew that he was supposed to thank her for coming . . . that he was happy to see her . . . but he couldn't get the words out.

So instead he just kissed her goodbye.

And then ignored her tears as she left the room.

On their fifth day in the hospital, they got good news . . . that they were healing quickly, and that most likely they would be released in twenty-four hours. And then they got bad news.

Word of survivors.

But not ones like them. No, these were the other kind. The kind that Emily was in her dreams.

The kind that wished they were dead.

The couple from Arkansas that had gone camping in the forest last summer, the college buddies from Duke that had left for a cross country road trip back in May.

Four men had left on that trip . . . only two survived. One was killed in the initial abduction, and one they found dead in the mine shaft.

He was the man with no face.

And then there were the sisters from Oklahoma. They'd left for a trip to Mardi Gras and never come home.

They'd been missing for fifteen months.

The six survivors were pulled out on stretchers.

The men had been completely castrated, their eyes were poked out, they were starved, beaten . . . and a limb here or there chopped off.

And of course, they were raped.

Everybody had been raped. Repeatedly, and horrifically. Sometimes with objects . . . sometimes not. Tom had most definitely been an equal opportunity offender. And though the women had also suffered the same torture and degradations as the men, there was something more. Something . . . worse.

Two of them were pregnant.

Late second, and early third trimesters . . . far too late to abort. There was progeny about to be born.

Their family line would continue.

When Emily heard that . . . they were getting regular updates from JJ . . . she'd nearly fallen stumbling off the bed with her arm still in its sling. Then she ran to the bathroom.

Fortunately by then she was once again capable of running.

Still though, she barely made it to the toilet. And when she felt a hand on her shoulder, and then someone pulling back her hair, she knew that it was Hotch.

He'd sent JJ away.

And once she was done getting sick . . . throwing up the remnants of the first full meal she'd eaten from the night before, macaroni and cheese . . . he helped her up.

As she rinsed her mouth, she pushed down the pain from the pull in her stitches. Then she turned off the faucet and their eyes caught in the mirror.

Hers were blazing hot.

"That was us without guns," she hissed. "That was us and we left them there."

At her words of condemnation, Hotch's face twisted with pain and guilt. His gaze fell from hers.

It dropped down to the sink.

He watched the droplets of water sliding along the porcelain . . . they were slipping towards the drain.

"Emily," his hand unconsciously moved to her side . . . when they were alone he found himself touching her all the time, "you _know_ that we had to leave," his red rimmed eyes shot back up to hers, "you _know_ that."

She nodded.

"I do, I do know that we had to leave . . . and I know that we left them behind. And one fact doesn't change the other."

Her voice was hard . . . brittle.

Unforgiving.

Then she turned around and his arm fell away from her body, it dropped back down to his side.

His fingers dangled.

She stared up at him. He stared down at her. His stomach was churning with guilt and remorse for decisions he couldn't change . . . and wouldn't even if he could. And though his eyes burned with the pain of those choices . . . her eyes were clear.

He whispered.

"We're never going to get past this, are we?"

Emily blinked once . . . and looked away from him. Then the fury seemed to go out of her . . . she couldn't stay angry with him.

It just caused him more hurt.

So she leaned forward and rested her head on his chest. It was not the first time that she had done this since they'd woken up.

This was just how they interacted now.

And so he did what was becoming rote. His arm came up. He pulled her close. And he remembered that his decisions . . . made and unmade . . . were the reason that she was here with him now.

And that's why he wouldn't change them even if he could.

Emily's eyes fell shut as she breathed Hotch in. He had become her touchstone. A talisman that she reached for when she felt herself . . . or her sanity . . . slipping away. But she was going to have to give him back when they got home.

And she didn't know what she was going to do then.

But he was still hers full time now, and so she buried her face against his battered chest and took a deep breath. And then she finally answered his question.

"No," she murmured slowly, "no, I don't think that we will get passed this."

In the forest she had been uncertain about their future. Now that uncertainty had passed. The brutal truth of it was . . . this had changed them. They weren't the same people anymore.

And they never would be again.

But as she felt Hotch's chest hitch, and his fingers dig into her side, she registered the pain that she had caused him . . . and then she remembered his son. And that he still needed to be a dad.

And what if that was a part of him that was gone?

Suddenly she hated herself for answering the question . . . for saying the words out loud.

It was a cruelty he didn't deserve.

So she slid her arm around his waist, and tipped her head back. Her lips curved . . . it was almost a smile.

It was the best she could manage.

"We can try though," she continued softly, "and even if we never do move past it, we can maybe at least find some way to live with it."

Her words were again the truth . . . but this time they weren't so cruel. And as she saw him bite down on his lip, right before he pulled her back to his chest, she knew that those words had made an impact too. That they had pushed back a little of his hopelessness.

He rubbed his hand down her back . . . and her eyes fell shut again. A tiny spark of hope was lit there. A shimmer of a brighter world, a world currently beyond them.

Someday . . . maybe . . . they'd get back there.

Time would tell.

* * *

_A/N 2: So there you go. Dark all the way to the end. But obviously, it was not a happy ending story. I mean, even with them surviving not violated and not dismembered, it just wasn't going to end well. Though, it did end on a slightly more 'upbeat' note than Epilogue B in Snake Pit! But of course, it would have to :)_

_I wanted Emily to be the stronger one here at the end because I saw the pregnancies being a catalyst to really tap into her rage at what had almost happened to them. And with everything so raw, I didn't see Hotch being ready for that, or more specifically ready to be a TARGET of that. Even if it was incidental. She was blaming them both for things that they couldn't control. _

_And I pulled Haley in here at the end, because a) it makes sense that if Hotch was unconscious in the hospital she'd jump on the plane too, and b) setting up the conflict between Hotch's loyalties to these women. Because the next story is going to be Hotch torn between whether he still wants to try to salvage his marriage, and this new relationship with Emily. Which though not romantic at this point, is VITAL for his continued mental wellbeing, so it's not like a normal situation where he can step back and say 'I shouldn't be connecting with this woman like this, I'm married.' That's not really relevant here. Also though, remember, in canon Haley was on the verge of leaving him right in this window of time. A fact alluded to here. So their marriage was on its last legs anyway. It's just that she doesn't feel she can leave him, NOW. That would be kind of dick'ish. But Hotch is going to be very different now than canon so he's going to be viewing his home life differently than before._

_I'd love to jump into the next phase here, but I am trying to circle around to some other neglected stories first. And to that point, the conclusion of "Cranky Bastard" will be up this week. That's to proofing stage too. Beyond that, I have to see what else I can pull forward. I also think I can get 'Aaron & Emily' wrapped too. Not this week :) but this month. And I am also definitely planning to start the next story HERE before the end of the month. Aside from just relationship building, we'll be touching on some canon season 3 eps (in the same manner we did in Girl) but revisited with this completely different type of interaction between H/P. And ALSO, I do have another heavy, dark 'case fic' that will be sucking them in at a later date. So, I think the next story will be 'big.' And I'm kind of happy about that because (though I know you guys are waiting for updates elsewhere) most of my bigger stories (with the exception of SC) I can see the light in the tunnel. I know how many chapters until they wrap. And mostly, they're wrapping in single digits. So to keep the muse generally alive (i.e. not depressed that so many of these worlds will be shutting down) it is nice to have a big open canvas to paint on again. Something heavier, but with the ebb and flow story arcs already lined up like we had in Girl proper. _

_Thank you so much everyone who has been reading and reviewing all along here, much appreciated :) Especially when it is a much darker path we're wandering down. Not everybody's cup of tea ;)_


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